


The Touch of his Hand

by macbyrne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, M/M, Pre-Series, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Sibling Incest, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-20 18:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2439179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macbyrne/pseuds/macbyrne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is fourteen when his psychic ability manifests, in the form of powerful, uncontrollable visions that leave him incapacitated by pain. Fear of his father’s reaction to having a son with supernatural powers leaves him only one person to turn to: his brother Dean. As his feelings for Dean grow stronger and the visions take more out of him, both brothers will have to make decisions on what is important, and where you go when you have nowhere left to turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SPN/J2 Big Bang 2010
> 
> Please see http://orukaz.livejournal.com/4486.html for the fabulous artwork Orukaz created for me.

_Now_  
  
They were supposed to be catching the demon unawares. They were supposed to have prior knowledge of his plans. They were _supposed_ to be exorcising the yellow-eyed bastard and sending his ass screaming back to hell.  
  
Nothing ever went the way it was supposed to.  
  
“I have such plans for you, Sammy.”  
  
Sam watched as the demon wearing his father’s body walked across the empty warehouse, stepping over Bobby’s unconscious form like so much garbage.  
  
“I’ve been doing this for a long time, waiting for someone as perfect as you to come along. And finally, _finally_ I found you. _You_ are going to be my general.”  
  
Sam shook his head. “What are you talking about?”  
  
The demon laughed. “I’m not surprised you don’t know. Not like your father lives to share and care, does he? Trust me Sammy, he’s not thrilled I’m telling you any of this right now. But you deserve to know.”  
  
“Don’t listen to him, Sammy! Don’t listen to anything that fucker says!” Dean was pinned to the opposite wall, his voice furious.  
  
“Know what?”  
  
The demon propped himself against the wall Sam was pinned to, leaning against it like he had all the time in the world. He ignored Dean’s panicked shouts.  
  
“That you’ve been my chosen son ever since you were born. Since before you were born, actually. Your mother traded you for your father, long before you were even thought of. Wasn’t that sweet of her?”  
  
“Shut up,” Sam whispered.  
  
“And those pesky visions that have been giving you so much trouble? Come from the demon blood I fed you the night I killed your mother. Wouldn’t she be surprised by what you’ve turned into? I know I am.”  
  
“Shut your mouth!” Sam shouted.  
  
“Sammy, Sammy. You’re even more perfect than I imagined. I’ve been waiting for you for a long time, Sam. I had so many plans set in place, all designed to turn you to my way of thinking. Imagine my surprise when I turn up for our wonderful family reunion, and I find out you’re so much more corrupted than I could have ever dreamed. You’re so close to being exactly what I want.”  
  
“I’ll never be what you want me to be. I’m nothing like you. Nothing!”  
  
“Tell me something, Sammy. Does your brother know you dream about fucking him on a nightly basis?”  
  
Sam could feel the blood drain from his face.  
  
“Did you know?” the demon asked over his shoulder, to where Dean was hanging off the opposite wall. “Do you know what your brother dreams about, what he desires, what he _longs_ for?”  
  
He watched as Dean turned his face away from the demon’s taunts, and every hope Sam had been clinging to dissolved like it was washed in acid. Of course Dean didn’t feel the same. Dean wasn’t sick like Sam was, wasn’t a _freak_ like he was. Demon blood made a lot of sense. It explained not only the visions, but the sick fantasies he’d been harboring for so long.  
  
But to watch Dean turn away from him for the first time in his life...it hurt. Hope was the only thing he’d had to hold on to, when everything else had been burned away. Hope that somehow, Dean would understand. Would forgive Sam for whatever was twisted up inside him to make him like this. Losing that precious hope, to have Dean find out from _the demon_ to hear the words in his father’s sneering voice, to know that there was nothing he could say now to make this better, made it so much worse, and he gulped against the bile rising up the back of his throat.  
  
The demon stalked over to his brother and started whispering in his ear. Sam couldn’t hear the words, but he knew the damn thing was telling every single one of his secrets, every dirty little fantasy, every thought, pouring them out like poison into his brother’s ear. When Dean’s eyes flashed up to Sam’s, he had to look away. He couldn’t stand to watch Dean’s face change, to watch the eyes that had only ever looked at him with love widen with shock, with disgust, or even worse, fear. It was his worst nightmare coming true, and he couldn’t bear to watch as the last beautiful thing in his life was ripped away from him forever.  
  
“ _God_ , how he wants you.” The demon pitched his voice so Sam could hear his words this time. “I’ve never felt such desire. It runs through every inch of him. But it’s not just want. Not just some sick craving. He _loves_ you. Sam loves you with every fiber of his being. It’s fucking poetic Dean, that’s what it is. Like some Greek tragedy. I could almost cry.” The demon sniffed and pretended to wipe away a tear.  
  
“Get the hell out of my father,” Sam hissed, straining against the demon’s power.  
  
“Well now, I don’t know, _son_.” The word curdled on the demon’s tongue, and drove into Sam’s brain like a spike of ice. The word was a double mockery, coming from a demon possessing his father. He couldn’t remember the last time his father called him ‘son’. The demon turned away from Dean, and moved towards Sam, smiling. If there had been no other clues that alone would have told him his father was possessed. His father hadn’t smiled at him like that in years, with that look of paternal pride and fondness and really, how fucking sad was that?  
  
The demon leaned the borrowed body against the wall beside him, ran a hand over his chest. “I kinda like it in here. So much hate, so much despair. I could set up shop in here for quite a while. And hey, at least this way Johnny’ll finally know where I am. After all, he’s spent _so_ much time looking for me.” The fake sympathy dripping from the demon’s words made Sam feel like throwing up.  
  
“I’m going to fucking kill you.” It was Dean’s voice, full of pain and rage and hate.  
  
Sam glanced over at his brother and wanted to cry. Still fighting, still _trying_ , even after everything. Dean never gave up, no matter what. No matter how beaten he was, no matter how tired, no matter how hopeless the situation, he still tried. Sam loved him so much.  
  
“You do, don’t you? You really do love him.”  
  
It was a statement, not a question, but he had to answer it anyway, had to somehow let his brother know that it wasn’t just desire or lust, that it wasn’t just some twisted part of him tainting everything they had.  
  
“Yes,” he whispered, staring at the face of the one person he could never have. “Yes, I love him.”  
  
The demon grinned. “Thank you, Sammy.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“For making a tedious task enjoyable. I was only going to kill your brother. Quick and painless. Well, not _painless_. And knowing me, probably not quick, either. What can I say, Sammy? I love my work.” He chuckled. “But knowing how much you love him, I think I’ll really draw it out. Make it last.” The demon’s face was pressed against his, the gruff voice whispering in his ear. “Dean’s been holding you back, Sammy. Keeping you from tapping into that dark place in your soul, the part of you that comes from me. Keeping you from reaching your full potential. With him out of the way, there’ll be nothing holding you back.”  
  
“Holding me back from what?”  
  
The demon smiled. It looked hideous on his father’s grizzled face. “From becoming the general for my army. I’ve been searching for the perfect candidate for years, Sam, picking the best of every generation. But they were never what I needed. But you. _You’re_ going to be my general. You’ve already come so far on your own. There’s just one more lesson I need you to learn. It’s very simple, Sammy. A smart boy like you should be able to grasp it right away. It’s this: you can’t fight me. You can’t stop me. I’m going to take you over and make you my puppet. You’ll watch as your hands peel the skin from your brother’s bones and there won’t be a damn thing you can do about it. And when you slit his throat, you’ll finally let go of that pesky humanity you’ve been clinging to. You’ll become my right hand. My perfect soldier.”  
  
“No.” Sam whispered, horrified.  
  
“Yes. You’re going to kill your brother, Sam. And I’ll enjoy every single second of it.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
_Then_  
  
There was no warning on the day Sam’s world changed forever. School was out for the summer, and he begged his father to allow him to take some summer credits. He had passed eighth grade by the skin of his teeth, three schools in six months making it difficult to catch up on the work. If they could stay in Wisconsin through July, he would be able to take some make-up courses at the local high school, and start freshman year on par with the other kids.  
  
“No,” John Winchester said, leafing through research into his latest hunt. “We’re not staying here next year, Sam. I’ve got a line on a hunt in Iowa. We’re bugging out tomorrow.”  
  
“Tomorrow? When the hell were you going to tell us?”  
  
His father glanced up. “Watch your mouth, Sam. And I’m telling you now.”  
  
“Dad—“  
  
“Go pack your stuff, Sam. That’s an order.”  
  
Just like that, he was dismissed. No discussion, no argument. Pack up, _now_.  
  
Sam stomped to his room, taking a childish pleasure in slamming the bedroom door behind him.  
  
“Sammy.”  
  
Sam cringed a little at the chiding tone.  
  
“We’re moving again. Did you know we’re moving?”  
  
Dean paused, hands tangled in a clean shirt. “I knew. Dad told me last night.”  
  
“And what? You couldn’t be bothered to tell me?”  
  
Dean sighed. Sam squashed the niggling feeling of guilt that squirmed in his stomach. He knew it wasn’t Dean’s fault, knew Dean didn’t want this for them, but it didn’t stop the frustration he could feel rising up the back of his throat. He had to let it out somehow. Dean just made a convenient target.  
  
“Dude, you just would have been pissed off last night instead of today. Nothing you can do about it. Nothing I can do. We’re going and that’s it.”  
  
Sam flopped face down on his bed. “Don’t you ever get tired of doing what he says?”  
  
Dean sat beside him, and rubbed a hand up his back. “Not when I know we’re helping people. And we are, Sammy. We save lives, doing what we do. We help people. It’s important.”  
  
“Sure, it’s important. Everything’s important, except what I want.”  
  
“Sam—“  
  
“Forget it.”  
  
Dean was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry we can’t stay, Sammy. I know you wanted to take those summer courses.”  
  
Sam shrugged without lifting his face from the pillow. “S’not your fault.” Dean’s hand was warm where it rested on his back.  
  
“Do you want me to try talking to Dad?”  
  
Sam rolled over and stared up at his brother. “Why bother? You know there’s no way he’s going to stay. He’s already looking ahead at this new hunt. He won’t let me stay by myself and he won’t let you stay with me. Which means the Winchesters are moving again.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Sammy.” Dean repeated. Sam nodded. Dean didn’t apologize often, let alone twice in one conversation, so he knew Dean really felt bad. It helped ease the ache that had taken up residence under his breast bone when his father said they were pulling up stakes again.  
  
“It’s okay, Dean.” Sam’s stomach twisted at the sad look on Dean’s face.  
  
Dean took too much on himself. He might only be fourteen, but Sam wasn’t blind. He knew how much his brother did for him, gave up for him. He knew about the baseball coach at the last school who had begged Dean to play for the team. He knew about the chemistry teacher at the high school three moves ago who had told Dean how much promise he had, how much potential. He knew that Dean had taken Home Ec at this school, instead of shop like he wanted, because Sam had grumbled once that he was tired of eating out of a can. He knew what Dean did for him. So he tried to let Dean know that it was okay, that he understood, without wallowing in one of Dean’s hated chick-flick moments.  
  
“Make sure you fold my shirts right, Dean. You know I hate it when they’re all wrinkled.”  
  
Dean stared at him for a moment before a grin crossed his face. “Fold them yourself. Bitch.”  
  
“Jerk.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
Sam hadn’t paid much attention when his father had started rambling off the facts of the case on the drive, but he had gotten the general gist of things, enough to know that he was going to be expected to help on this hunt. Dad was looking into the mysterious deaths of six people, three married couples. In each case, the husband had died first, followed by the wife a few weeks later. All of the deceased couples had been in good health until a few weeks before their deaths, when they’d suddenly gone into a steep decline. Natural causes had been listed on all of the autopsies, but Dad was certain something supernatural was going on, so he had uprooted them once again and brought the whole family here so he could figure out what was going on.  
  
The next day they got to see the small ramshackle house Dad had rented. Sam glared at the back of his father’s head. This was the crappiest place he’d landed them in yet. The walls of the house were bare wood, with exposed wiring and no insulation to speak of. It was a shack, not a house, and Sam couldn’t believe that this place lived up to even Dad’s poor standards. There was no kitchen, the barest rudimentary of a bathroom, and there wasn’t one door or window in the place without a huge gap to let in a draft. It was a damn good thing this hunt was taking place during early summer, because otherwise the place would have been an icebox.  
  
Even Dean, who rarely noticed the creature comforts as long as he had a comfortable bed and a TV, couldn’t stay silent on this one.  
  
“Dad, this place—“  
  
“I know, Dean. I know it’s not the best, but it’s only for a couple of weeks. No point renting a place that’ll cost more when we’ll be heading out by the end of the month.”  
  
“But Dad—“  
  
Dad gave his usually obedient son a glare. “Point made, Dean. It’s a crap hole. But we’ve stayed in worse.”  
  
“When?” Sam asked in a soft voice, but Dad heard him.  
  
“You got something to say, Sam?”  
  
Sam opened his mouth to call his father out for planting them in such a shithole, but at the pleading look Dean gave him, he rolled his eyes and muttered, “No sir.”  
  
Dad nodded. “Good. Stow your gear, boys. I want to be on the road and at the first victim’s house before dark.”  
  
Sam followed Dean into the one bedroom, which turned out to be a glorified closet rather than an actual bedroom. There was only enough space for the bed, nothing else. There was no closet and Sam discovered if Dean was in the room, there wasn’t room for him to stand up, so he crawled onto the bed.  
  
“This sucks,” he hissed at Dean, careful to keep his voice low.  
  
Dean shrugged and didn’t meet Sam’s eyes. “It’s not forever, Sam. Consider it incentive to figure out what’s going on here.”  
  
“Incentive? What the hell am I supposed to do, Dean? It’s not like I can help hunt this thing. You know Dad won’t let me.”  
  
“Well, you can help me with the research, then. You know how much I hate sticking my nose in old books. The sooner we find this thing and stop it, the sooner we can get out of here.”  
  
“You just don’t want to have to do any more reading than absolutely necessary.”  
  
Since there was no closet, Dean shoved their duffels under the bed. “Well duh, geekboy.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”  
  
“Seriously, Sammy. It’ll be okay. We’ll gank this ghost, or whatever the hell it is, and be out of here before you have time to get sick of this place.”  
  
“Too late.”  
  
“Sam.” Dean’s tone held a mild warning, and Sam knew Dean’s patience was coming to an end. He rolled his eyes again.  
  
“Fine, I’ll help research. Maybe Dad’ll drop me at the library while you two go to the house.”  
  
“Just remember to actually research this time, Sammy. Try not to get lost in the soft porn section.”  
  
“God, Dean! It wasn’t porn!”  
  
“I dunno, Sammy. Those drawings sure looked like jerk-off material to me.”  
  
Sam yanked the pillow out from under his head and threw it at his brother. “They were medieval _etchings_ , Dean. Libraries don’t stock porn, you degenerate.”  
  
Dean threw the pillow back, chuckling when Sam ducked away from the flying object and rolled into the wall. “Sure Sam. Sure. Nice story. Good cover. How long did it take you to come up with that one?”  
  
“Boys! Move out!”  
  
Dean glanced over his shoulder at the shout, then turned back to his brother. “I’ll ask him if we can drop you at the library, okay?”  
  
Sam nodded. Dean had better luck asking their father for anything. Lately, anytime Sam asked for a favor, it inevitably ended in a screaming match.  
  
Even Dean had no luck this time, though. “No, Dean. Sam needs to start actively participating in hunts. This is a good time for him to get his feet wet. We’re going to take a look around and get a feel for what’s going on. Tonight will be time for more in-depth research.”  
  
Sam couldn’t help himself. “You don’t think it would be a better idea to research _before_ we start fumbling around without a clue?”  
  
Dad glared. “The site is safe, Sam. You think I’d just march you boys into danger? That the kind of father you think I am?”  
  
Sam couldn’t hold his father’s gaze this time. He knew his father wouldn’t intentionally put them in harm’s way. “No sir,” he mumbled.  
  
He could feel his father’s stare burning a hole into the top of his head for another moment before Dad relented. “We’re just doing a background search here, Sam. Whatever this thing is, it’s long gone. I’m positive that the thing is latching on to the victims, following them around. It’s not bound to any one location. But we might learn some valuable information by going to each of the victim’s homes. We can do an EMF scan, check for sulfur, that sort of thing. It’s a place to start, anyway. I’d never let you boys get hurt, you know that.”  
  
Sam didn’t need Dean’s prompting kick to answer the soft question in his father’s voice. “I know, Dad.”  
  
He ruffled Sam’s hair, and then headed out the door. “C’mon, boys. Sooner we get there, the sooner we can get some dinner. Let’s go.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)

  
  
Dad had done a quick scan of the bottom floor, and pronounced it clean. He and Dean headed up to the second, looking for clues, for something to explain why a fifty-five year old woman in perfect health would deteriorate so quickly after the death of her husband.  
  
“You stay down here, Sam. Go through the desk in the study, see if you can find anything.”  
  
Dean paused at the foot of the stairs before following his father up. “Holler if you find something, okay Sammy?”  
  
“It’s Sam.”  
  
“Sure, Sammy.”  
  
Sam huffed a little in exasperation, and stuck his tongue out at his brother’s retreating back. He headed into the study, nose wrinkling a little at the stale smell. The house had been closed since the widow’s death and the house reeked of old cigarettes, and the faint odor of cat piss. The study was the worst. Instead of the musty scent of old books, a smell Sam was intimately familiar with and enjoyed, all he could smell was mildew and mold. Whoever had owned the books in this room hadn’t treated them with half the care that Bobby Singer gave to his collection. And considering Bobby had a tendency to use his books as coasters for his beer, that was saying something.  
  
He sat at the desk, an old roll-top model made of dark wood and pushed the roll-top back, enjoying the low rumbling sound it made as the cover disappeared into the desk. A dozen little cubbyholes and drawers made up the back wall of the desk, each nestled with paper and notes and little knick-knacks. He pulled out a sheaf of letters, flicking through them and setting them aside, bills and flyers and junk mail. He opened the first drawer and found sea shells, old and crumbling at the edges, but more exotic than anything Sam had ever seen, smooth creamy colors and twisted shapes so unlike anything he’d found at either the Atlantic or Pacific coasts.  
  
He opened the next drawer, and the next, looking at the detritus of a life cut short, recognizing that these were items the widow had set aside to save as mementos of the man she had loved and lost. He felt a pang of sadness shoot through him when he ran his fingers over a tiny ceramic rose that was placed in what was obviously the save pile.  
  
 _(oh god he’s gone he’s really gone)_  
  
The workmanship was exquisite, the colors deep and pure, fading from a deep crimson to a light rose color at the edges of the petals. Sam carefully removed it from the drawer, liking the way it sat in the palm of his hand, and he wondered if the widow would mind if he took it, if he kept it. It wouldn’t take up much room and it was so  
  
 _(beautiful, so beautiful god I loved him so much and he’s gone, he’s gone and left me and now what am I supposed to do?)_  
  
beautiful.  
  
Sam shook his head. His head was aching a little bit, probably from the smell in the room and the mildew. He placed the rose back in the drawer, and moved on to the books that were stacked on the corner of the desk.  
  
He leafed through them, looking for inscriptions and notes, lifting each one and shaking it to see if anything came loose. It wasn’t until the last book that he found anything of interest.  
  
The last book, a thin volume with a red leather cover, was a journal. The widow’s, judging from the beautiful curling handwriting. Sam picked it up, letting the pages fall open in his hands, and almost dropped the book as a sharp pain slammed into him, ripping through his mind and leaving him helpless.  
  
 _(pain such pain he’s gone and there’s nothing I can do oh god I hurt so much what do I do what happened why did he die I can’t sleep can’t sleep he’s gone and I can’t sleep so tired so tired that thing won’t let me sleep wakes me up every night is that what Ronald saw did it kill Ronald it’s killing me I know it it’s killing me and I’m so scared so confused so tired so tired can’t sleep if I sleep I’ll die Ronald’s dead Ronald’s gone oh god he’s dead and gone and left me all alone I’m going to die too I can be with Ronald god I miss him so much can’t sleep can’t think miss him miss him want him I think I’m going crazy and that thing will be back tonight and I can’t sleep can’t sleep can’t sleep can’t sleep help me please oh god I’m going crazy won’t somebody help me)_  
  
“Sam!”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=SPN_BigBang10_1stVision-1.jpg)

  
Sam struggled to focus on Dean’s voice, but it was so hard. His head was aching, and his vision was blurry and tear-filled. He could make out the shape of his brother, could feel Dean’s hands gripping his shoulders, hear the worry in Dean’s voice. He didn’t notice the journal as it fell from his hands.  
  
“I’m okay. I’m okay, Dean,” he managed.  
  
“Jesus, Sammy.” Dean didn’t let go of him. “I’ve been calling your name forever. You were just sitting there, staring off into space, holding that damn book. Are you okay?”  
  
Sam pushed his brother’s hands away so he could rub his temples. His head was throbbing, and he could feel his pulse pounding behind his eyes. His mouth felt dry and pasty, like he’d been asleep for hours. What the hell had happened? The last thing he remembered was picking up the journal, and then nothing until Dean’s voice broke through the... what? The dream? Had he fallen asleep? No, Dean had said he was sitting here staring off into space. What then? A vision?  
  
He watched as Dean leaned over and picked up the book. “What is it, Sammy?”  
  
Sam shook his head, and winced a little as the headache ramped up another notch. “The widow’s journal, I think. She... she was scared, Dean. She saw something when she went to sleep every night. She thought it killed her husband, and she thought it was trying to kill her too.”  
  
Dean glanced up from where he was paging through the book. “She wrote all that down?”  
  
Sam scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Ye-yeah. Yeah, she must have.” He tried to push away the feelings of despair and loss that swamped him when he thought of what he’d seen, and had to fight back tears.  
  
“What the hell does that mean?”  
  
“It means yes, she wrote it all down.”  
  
Dean shook his head a little, but called upstairs to their father. “Dad! Sam found something!”  
  
Dad came down the stairs, thumbing through some papers he’d found upstairs. He glanced over the journal when Dean handed it over. “Good work, Sam. I’ll look through this tonight and see if we can get any clues as to what’s doing the killing.” He paused and looked at his youngest, a frown of concern creasing his features. “You okay, Sam?”  
  
Sam tried a smile that felt like it didn’t fit on his face. “I’m fine, Dad. Just have a headache.”  
  
Dad gave him a piercing look, but finally nodded. “Okay. Dean, I’m almost done looking through the husband’s personal items. I’ll finish up and we’ll be done here. Look after your brother.”  
  
Sam barely registered his father’s words, he was so busy trying not to throw up. He jerked back when something touched his head, and the motion made his eyes swim with tears. He could just about kill for an aspirin. The pain made him feel sick. It seemed to start at the back of his head, and then spiral out until it reached his temples. It felt like the pain was stuck there, throbbing at those sensitive pulse points. It couldn’t go anywhere. And then with the next beat of his heart, another spike of pain joined the ones already gathered at his temples. Soon there wouldn’t be any room left for new pain and the skin at his temples would split open. The pain would come pouring out along with his brains, looking for a new place to go, another brain to split in two.  
  
“Sammy, you okay?”  
  
Sam didn’t know when he had closed his eyes, but he turned blindly toward the soft concern in Dean’s voice. He could feel Dean’s fingers tracing over his forehead, searching for fever, sweeping his long bangs back and it felt so good, he couldn’t help pressing into the touch. Dean’s hand was cool, and strong, and touched him with love. It felt like Dean’s hand was enough to stop the pain.  
  
“Head... my head hurts so bad. Dean, it hurts.”  
  
“It’s a migraine, Sammy. A girl in my class gets them. C’mon. Let’s go out to the car. You can lie down in the backseat, nice and quiet. It’ll help.”  
  
Sam kept his eyes closed, let Dean haul him gently out of the chair. He let Dean loop an arm over his shoulders, let Dean guide him out of the house and into the backseat of the car. The upholstery creaked under his hands and knees as he climbed in, then whooshed out a soft sigh when he collapsed onto it, curled up on his side. The smell of leather, and gun oil, and _Dean_ surrounded him and he knew without opening his eyes that Dean had covered him with his jacket.  
  
“You want an aspirin, Sammy?”  
  
“I want a Vicodin,” he whispered back, smiling when Dean chuckled.  
  
“I don’t think so.” He felt a strong hand lift his feet, and the seat talked to him some more as Dean settled himself with Sam’s feet in his lap. The door creaked as Dean pulled it shut.  
  
“What happened in there Sam?”  
  
He opened his mouth to make something up, because a Winchester wasn’t going to admit to something supernatural happening to him, no way. Winchester’s dealt with the supernatural shit all day long, but it didn’t _happen_ to them. Or if it did, they salted and burned whatever had caused it, and then went about their lives.  
  
But this time it had happened to him. And as far as he knew, there was nothing to salt and burn. It hadn’t been a ghost, or a spirit. He had felt it, felt the widow’s – _Janet_ , his mind whispered, _her name was Janet_ and how could he _know_ that? – pain and desperation and fear.  
  
“I think... I think I had a vision.”  
  
Dean was silent for a long moment, just rubbing his fingers over Sam’s bony ankle, over and over in a soothing circular motion. Sam had no knowledge of acupuncture or pressure points, but somehow he doubted the ankle was connected to the brain. It still helped though. He could feel the headache back off a pace.  
  
“A vision?” Dean’s voice was doubtful.  
  
“Yeah. Don’t tell Dad.”  
  
“Sam...”  
  
“Just... It was probably a one-time thing. He’ll be worried enough about the headache. I don’t want to freak him out even more. Okay?”  
  
The silence from Dean spoke volumes. Dean didn’t keep secrets from Dad. Ever. You couldn’t keep secrets on a hunt. Dad was always saying you could never tell what piece of information would be the key ingredient in solving a case and saving someone’s life.  
  
“Dean, please?”  
  
Dean didn’t keep secrets from Dad. Unless Sam asked him to.  
  
“Alright. Fine. But Sam—“  
  
“If it happens again, we’ll tell him. I promise.”  
  
Dean was silent for a long moment. “What did you see?”  
  
Sam opened one eye, prepared to slam it shut if he had to, but the pain remained manageable. He still wanted that Vicodin, but he could wait.  
  
“It was all in bits and pieces. Mostly I got her emotions. She was scared. Dean, man, she was so scared. She knew it had killed her husband, and she knew it was going to kill her, but she didn’t know what to do. She was afraid to go to sleep and she was hurting and... and she wanted to die, she wanted to be with him...” Sam tried to stop the tears from welling up in his eyes, could feel the headache coming back with a vengeance, but he couldn’t help it. She had been so sad, and scared, and alone, and he could still feel everything she felt, like he was back in the vision.  
  
“Shh, Sam. It’s okay. It’ll be okay, Sammy.”  
  
He wiped at his face with the heel of one hand. “She was scared to go to bed at night. She kept waking up and seeing it, whatever it was, crouched over her. Whatever it was doing, it hurt. I could feel it. It hurt her, Dean.”  
  
“We’ll get it.”  
  
“We don’t even know what it was!”  
  
“We know what it wasn’t, though. It wasn’t a ghost, or a werewolf, or a vengeful spirit. Hell, that’s half the things we normally hunt right there, Sammich.”  
  
Sam was disgusted enough to raise his head off the seat. The warning thump his head gave made him lower it back down. “Sammich? What the hell, Dean?”  
  
Dean shrugged. “Well, you’re always saying you hate Sammy.”  
  
“I’ll take Sammy over Sammich any day of the week.”  
  
Dean grinned. “See, I knew you liked being called Sammy.”  
  
“I hate it, you giant jerk. But it’s a million times better than Sammich. What the hell, Dean?”  
  
“I kinda thought it had a good ring to it.”  
  
“I’ll make you a deal. You can call me Sammich if I can call you Deanie-Beanie. Whaddya say?”  
  
Dean pulled a revolted face that made Sam laugh. It hurt like hell, but it felt good all at the same time. He could feel the last remnants of the vision slide away. He could still remember everything, but the bone-aching loneliness, the fear and the pain were gone. His headache backed down a whole level. He thought he could get by now with a couple of extra-strength aspirin, and skip the Vicodin completely.  
  
He closed his eyes, wrapped in Dean’s jacket and the comforting smells of the Impala, and let the rhythmic motion of Dean’s fingers on his ankle sooth him to sleep.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
Even with the journal, they had no clue what was doing the killing. Because Sam couldn’t just flat out tell Dad about what he’d seen in the vision, couldn’t tell him about the hulking figure that waited until the victim fell asleep and then crouched on top of them, heavy weight pressing them down into the mattress, panic-laden limbs trapped beneath the blankets while the monster sucked the very breath from their lungs. Everything they needed to solve the case was right in front of them, but how the hell was he supposed to tell his father about what _wasn’t_ in the journal? Exactly how was he supposed to explain he’d had a vision to a man who believed the only good supernatural creature was a dead one?  
  
He knew Dean still wanted him to tell. Dean hated keeping things from their father, Sam knew that. He knew how much it went against everything Dean believed in to keep valuable information from their dad, but Sam couldn’t figure out a way around it. He’d told Dean everything he’d seen, heard, _felt_ , in the vision, but Dean had never heard of that particular type of night stalker.  
  
“We could call Bobby?”  
  
Dean snorted. “And say what? ‘Hey Bobby, we’re trying to find a creature that sucks people dry while they sleep. Yeah, Sam saw it. Nope, in a vision. And no, we can’t tell Dad. Wanna help us out?’”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay. Well, I guess we’re going to have to find it ourselves then.”  
  
“I’m not letting you hunt this thing by yourself, Sam!”  
  
“No kidding. But we can research, right? We know what we’re looking for. Maybe if we can stumble across it, we can somehow ask Dad if it fits the symptoms the widow mentions in the journal.”  
  
Dean looked thoughtful. “That might work. But I still think it’d be easier if we just—“  
  
Sam groaned. “God, Dean! C’mon! I really don’t want to hear another lecture from Dad! Either he won’t believe us, and I’ll get a lecture about making up stories and you’ll get one about making sure I fly straight, or he will believe us and he’ll spend the next week trying to exorcise me. And lecturing you on letting me get possessed.”  
  
He watched Dean chew on his bottom lip as he finished reassembling the gun he had been cleaning. “Please, Dean? If we can just solve this case and get out of this shitty little shack, I know everything’ll be okay. Please?”  
  
“Fine. Fine, Sammy. But if you have another vision—“  
  
“I won’t. I know I won’t. It was just a one-time thing. It was probably that damn journal’s fault. I’m sure of it. Hell, if you’d picked it up first we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Sam grinned. “’Cause your teeny tiny brain would have exploded and we’d be visiting you in the vegetable ward right about now.”  
  
Dean reached over and punched him, smirking. “Smartass.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)

  
  
Dad had dropped them off at the library that morning, with the usual commands to _be good, listen to your brother, take care of your brother, call me if you find something_ ringing in their ears. Four hours later Dean’s stomach was rumbling so loudly Sam could hear it from across the table, and Sam had paper cuts on his paper cuts.  
  
“Sammy, you ready to head for lunch yet? I’m starving!”  
  
“Gimme one more minute, Dean. I think I – got it!”  
  
Dean pushed aside the stacks of books. “Seriously? You found it?”  
  
He glared at the surprised tone in his brother’s voice. “You didn’t think I could?”  
  
“Well, it’s not like you had a lot to go on. You really found it?”  
  
He turned the book around so Dean could read the entry. “I think so. It’s called an alp. It’s kind of like a cross between a vampire and a succubus. It paralyzes its victims, sits on their chests so they can’t move, and basically sucks the life force out of them. It often returns for multiple feedings and it screws with the victim’s perceptions, so they think it’s a nightmare or something.”  
  
Dean nodded. “So that’s why what the widow saw was so fucked up in your vision.”  
  
“Yeah. That, and some victims have slightly heightened senses. The theory is that the alp looks for people with psychic powers. Nothing too strong or heavy, nothing that would allow the person to fight back, but just enough to give their victims a little bit of flavor. I guess it likes the fear.” Sam’s voice was heavy.  
  
“C’mon Sammy, lighten up a little.” Dean reached out and punched his shoulder. “You figured it out. You solved the case!”  
  
He shrugged. “And how exactly do we give Dad the facts without telling him how I knew what to look for?”  
  
His brother’s face fell. “Oh. Shit.”  
  
He nodded. “Yeah.”  
  
“Look, why don’t we just tell Dad? It was just a one-time thing, some sort of feedback from the journal. You said yourself the victims were often psychic. The widow probably subconsciously imprinted herself on the journal. We tell him that, explain what you saw, show him how we backed it up with research? He might be pissed at first, but he’ll be on board once he sees that you’re right.”  
  
He stared at Dean for a long moment, trying to pick just the right words that would make him understand, and then finally gave up. He wasn’t sure _he_ understood. All he knew was the thought of telling his father about having a vision filled him with fear.  
  
“I just… Dean, if we tell Dad, it’ll be awful. Worse than the time you tried to take on that spirit by yourself. Remember?”  
  
Dean’s face twisted as if he’d just bitten into something sour. “Dude. You swore you’d never bring that up again.”  
  
“Well, I wouldn’t have to if you’d just trust me on this. Telling Dad will only make a crappy situation worse. Plus, I could go a long time without seeing that look on his face again.”  
  
His brother nodded. “Yeah. I hate it when he’s like that.”  
  
He snorted. “At least you’ve only seen it once. I get that look all the time.”  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
“That disappointed, how-the-hell-can-you-be-my-son look? Dean, Dad throws that one at me just about every day. Every time I want to study instead of hunt. Every time I want to do research instead of just following his plan. Every time I disagree with him.” His voice got softer. “I try, Dean. I do. But I can’t not be me. And he hates me.”  
  
The silence was almost deafening. Finally Dean got up and moved around the table, took a seat beside him. “Sammy. Dad doesn’t hate you.”  
  
“Maybe not. But he hates who I am. And that’s just as bad.”  
  
He soaked up the silent comfort Dean offered. For someone who professed to hate emotional moments, Dean was surprisingly good at offering reassurance.  
  
“He just doesn’t understand you.”  
  
Sam laughed. “Yeah. Understatement of the century, dude.”  
  
Dean nudged his shoulder. “C’mon, Sammy. We’ll figure something out. Let’s go get something to eat, okay?”  
  
“Yeah. Okay. But not that diner again, alright?”  
  
“What? Their chicken-fried steak is awesome!”  
  
“Dean, no. No! I’m not eating there again! Forget it!”  
  
“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. What’s our one rule?”  
  
“If there’s a sock on the door, go away?”  
  
“Okay, what’s our second rule?”  
  
Sam sighed and shook his head.  
  
“Driver picks the diner, shotgun shuts his cakehole. My choice Sammy, and I’ve got a craving for some chicken-fried.”  
  
“You’re not driving!”  
  
“Rule still stands, Samantha. Let’s go.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes, and followed his brother out of the library, grumbling that the desire to eat something that wasn’t fried in its own juices did not make him a girl.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
In the end, it was surprisingly easy to get Dad on board with their theory about the alp. Dean mentioned reading an article about a creature that mirrored the symptoms the widow had listed in her journal, and Dad agreed that the facts matched. Sam could barely stop the bitter flow of words that wanted to spew out of his mouth. He knew that if he had been the one to suggest the alp, their father would have dismissed it out of hand. But because it was Dean, Dad listened, considered his eldest son’s words, reviewed the research that ‘Dean’ had done and pronounced judgment.  
  
“Good work, son.”  
  
Dean’s eyes flashed to Sam, who shrugged, and turned away. It stung, but it wasn’t Dean’s fault. He knew that. And the warm hand Dean laid on the back of his neck in silent apology went a long way towards easing his unhappiness.  
  
He spent the rest of the hunt on a knife’s edge, waiting for another vision to hit. When nothing happened, and they killed the alp as it preyed on its next victim, he let out a mental sigh of relief. It really had been a one-time thing. He met Dean’s eyes over the withered body of the alp, and smiled at the relief in his eyes.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)

  
  
Dean wasn’t ashamed to admit that he watched his brother. All the time. They lived in a dangerous world and somebody had to keep an eye on the squirt. It didn’t matter what they were doing, or where they were, his eyes fell on Sam. He didn’t even have to look for him. His eyes had a true north. If he was blind he’d be able to find his brother.  
  
After Sam had his ‘vision’, Dean’s eyes were more focused on Sam than ever before. He watched his brother, cataloged his every move, his every expression, trying to determine if another vision was coming, if Sam was a victim of something supernatural or an honest-to-God psychic. He didn’t want that for Sam, didn’t want his brother cursed with some god-awful taint that would prevent him from having his own life someday. Dean loved the hunt, but he loved his brother more and he wanted something else for Sam. Something better.  
  
When the hunt finished without another vision, Dean let go of some of the tension thrumming through his body, but he still watched Sam more intently than he ever had before, straining to see something supernatural in his baby brother’s actions, but Sam was just Sam. Irritating, infuriating, brilliant Sam. As more and more time went by without anything unexplainable happening, Dean began to relax.  
  
Of course, that was when everything went to hell.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
It was two months after the successful hunt for the alp. Dean was watching porn that he was stealing from their upstairs neighbor on the small TV in the living room. Sam was attempting to cook something for dinner, having lost the bet with his brother on who could assemble their gun with their breath held faster. Not only had Sam turned blue, and almost lost consciousness, he’d been two seconds slower than Dean, who was taking intolerable pleasure in calling Sam his kitchen-bitch.  
  
The apartment had come furnished, which was a good thing considering everything the Winchesters owned fit in the trunk of the car with room to spare. Sam was fumbling in one of the cupboards for a pan to make an omelet when his head suddenly filled with pain and the kitchen, the apartment, and Dean disappeared.  
  
 _(I don’t understand where can he be he was just going out for milk but he’s been gone for hours where the hell is he)_  
  
A small blond woman paced back and forth between the familiar fridge and the stove. The linoleum was the same worn and faded pattern, but there were bright curtains hanging at the tiny window and the place was clean, much cleaner than Sam was used to.  
  
 _(where is he why isn’t he home yet should be here by now what’s going on where is he where is he oh my god what if something happened where is he where)_  
  
The wave of panic and fear that washed over Sam sent him crashing to his knees, helpless to do anything but stare at the woman as she paced, her hands clasped under her chin, tears streaming down her face with her thoughts on rapid repeat in Sam’s mind.  
  
 _(oh god no god why why did this happen how can everything be over everything we worked for everything we wanted dreamed of needed to happen gone forever gone he’s gone)_  
  
 _It’s another vision,_ Sam thought muzzily, trying to push past the woman’s feelings and focus on his own, but he couldn’t. Her thoughts were overpowering, smothering Sam’s fear and leaving him helpless to do anything but experience her anguish and despair.  
  
He didn’t want Dean to see this, didn’t want the look of fear and disgust he knew he would see on Dean’s face when he realized what a freak his brother was, but he couldn’t help it. It was hard wired into Sam, the need for his brother and he cried out with everything he had.  
  
 _Dean!_ he tried to scream, as the vision swamped his mind. _Help me!_  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)

  
  
Dean grimaced a little. Stolen porn should be good porn, it was practically a rule. But their neighbor wouldn’t pay for anything that wasn’t cheap as hell, which apparently included a little lesbian action. It was so fake Dean couldn’t even fool himself into thinking he was enjoying it, but it pissed Sammy off when he watched porn in the living room, so he was practically honor bound to keep watching.  
  
The loud thump had him sitting up straight on the musty couch. “Sam?”  
  
He was up and moving towards the kitchen when Sam didn’t answer.  
  
“Sam?”  
  
Then he was through the door, and it was every nightmare Dean had suffered in the last two months. Sam was kneeling on the cracked linoleum, head in his hands, shaking so badly Dean could almost hear his bones rattling.  
  
“Sammy!”  
  
He was on his knees, and grabbing Sam’s shoulders before he could even think maybe it wasn’t a good idea to touch somebody in the middle of a vision. Maybe it was like sleepwalking. Who the fuck knew? But he had to do something, offer some sort of support. But Sam didn’t even acknowledge him and Dean had to bite down on the panic churning through him. This couldn’t be happening again, it _couldn’t_. Sam was not a fucking psychic, dammit. But there was no doubt something was going on, and Sam was caught in its grip.  
  
Without warning, all the tension in Sam’s body disappeared, and he slumped over. Dean was barely able to catch him in time to prevent his head from bouncing off the edge of the stove. He shifted so Sam`s head was lying in his lap. The vacant look in Sam’s eyes made his stomach clench and roil.  
  
“Sam, you with me? C’mon kid, wake the fuck up. Sam!”  
  
It seemed like it took forever before Sam blinked, awareness slowly seeping back into his eyes. “Dean?” he whispered.  
  
“Yeah, Sammy. Yeah, I’m here. I gotcha.” He ran a hand through the tangled mop of Sam’s hair.  
  
“Jesus. Dean, my head. Oh god, it hurts.”  
  
“Shh, Sam. I gotcha. Just lie still for a bit.” He started rubbing gentle circles on the skin at Sam’s temples, not liking the way Sam winced away from the touch at first before settling.  
  
They stayed on the floor, Dean gently massaging Sam’s head, Sam breathing through his mouth in slow measured pants, trying to get on top of the pain. “You gonna throw up?” Dean asked softly.  
  
“I dunno. Maybe. Fuck, this hurts.”  
  
“Another vision, I take it?”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, it just hit me out of the blue.”  
  
“You okay?”  
  
Sam tried to shake his head, and stopped abruptly, paling. “No. Not really.”  
  
“What did you see this time?”  
  
Sam reached up and rubbed his forehead. “That’s the weird part. It was…”  
  
“What, a ghoul? A spirit? Werewolf? What?”  
  
“Nothing like that. It was completely normal. Just this woman who used to live here whose husband left her. Just never came home one night, went and moved in with his girlfriend. She had no idea he’d been cheating on her and it destroyed her when he up and left her without any warning. She was so betrayed, Dean. She just couldn’t believe that she’d loved him so much and he’d treated her that way.”  
  
“So what, she killed herself? We dealing with an angry ghost here?”  
  
“No, that’s the thing. She’s not dead.”  
  
Dean looked at Sam for a minute. “So, what? She cast a spell on her ex?”  
  
“No. Dean, she’s normal. Nothing supernatural at all. There’s nothing going on.”  
  
“What do you mean there’s nothing going on? You had a vision about… nothing?”  
  
Sam gazed up at him for a moment, and then closed his eyes. “Yeah. I had a vision about nothing. What the hell, Dean? What’s going on? What kind of freak am I?”  
  
Dean continued rubbing the slow circles on Sam’s temples, watching as the pain and tension melted away from Sam’s body. “I dunno, Sammy. I dunno. But I think we gotta tell Dad.”  
  
Sam jerked away from Dean’s hands, struggling to sit upright, but gave up when the headache flooded back, stronger than before, and allowed Dean to lay him back down. “We’re not telling Dad.”  
  
“Sam, you were completely out of it. I was calling your name and everything. You were checked _out_ , dude. We need help with this.”  
  
Sam glared. Dean groaned under his breath. That little line was between Sam’s eyes, creasing his forehead. He could remember his mother calling that the _I-want_ line. She used to try and smooth it out with her thumb when Sam was a baby, crying for something he wanted that he hadn’t gotten right away. Dean had tried the same trick when Sam was growing up, after she died, to try and sooth Sammy when he was fussy or colicky. It hadn’t worked then, and even though Dean rubbed his thumb over the line, trying to ease it away, it didn’t work now.  
  
“What exactly do you think we should tell him, Dean? ‘Oh hey Dad, I’m having visions. About what? Oh, nothing. No, seriously. Nothing. Yeah, I figured you’d be impressed.’ Is that how you see the conversation going?”  
  
“Sam, you had a vision. _Another_ vision. You promised me we’d tell Dad.”  
  
“I said we’d tell Dad if I had another vision _then_ , during the hunt. This might have just been a really vivid daydream.”  
  
“Who the fuck are you kidding? A vivid daydream that makes you practically pass out? Gives you migraines?”  
  
“Well, what the hell else could it be? Why would I have a vision about something _normal_?”  
  
“Sammy. We gotta tell him.”  
  
Sam closed his eyes. That damn line still between his brow, which meant he wasn’t giving up anytime soon.  
  
He was surprised when Sam said, in a resigned tone, “Fine. Tell him. But ask him something first. Ask him what he thinks about psychics.”  
  
“What? Sam—“  
  
“Just ask him. Before you tell him.”  
  
“Why do _I_ gotta tell him? We should tell him together.”  
  
Sam rolled over slowly, moving until he was on all fours, and then using the kitchen cupboards to haul himself to his feet. Dean rose with him, hands outstretched, ready to catch his brother in case he fell again.  
  
“You’re the one who wants to tell him. I’m not exactly eager to share more evidence that I don’t fit John Winchester’s image of the ideal son.” Sam’s voice was bitter and harsh.  
  
“Sam—“  
  
“No, it’s fine, Dean. Tell him. But ask him first, okay?”  
  
Dean watched as Sam moved out of the kitchen slowly, like every part of his body hurt. “Okay.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)


	2. Chapter 2

“Dad?”  
  
His father didn’t look up from cleaning the guns.  
  
“Dad?”  
  
“Dean, you finished with those knives yet?”  
  
He glanced down, and moved the whetstone carefully against the long thin blade of Sammy’s favorite knife. “Almost. Can I ask you a question?”  
  
Dad looked up, a wary look in his eye. “I thought we already had the talk?”  
  
He laughed. “Yeah, when I was twelve. It’s a little late for any pointers, Dad.”  
  
Dad chuckled. “Always wrap your tool and treat her like a lady.”  
  
“Yup, same talk as when I was twelve.”  
  
“It was not! There was a book and diagrams and—“  
  
He smiled. “No Dad. That was Sammy’s Health Ed textbook. We used it for Sammy’s talk. Last year, remember?”  
  
“Oh. Right.”  
  
There was a slightly uncomfortable silence that filled the room, and neither man seemed able to break it. Dean could hear the muffled sounds of Sam moving around in their room, could hear the little TV that came with the apartment blaring through the bedroom door – Sam was always shutting doors lately and too often Dean felt like he was on the wrong side of them – and wished suddenly that he was in there with his brother, watching some stupid documentary on penguins, or the life cycle of algae, or whatever the hell it was Sam was watching. They could curl up together on the bed, Sam tight against Dean’s side, and Dean could ignore the fact that most eighteen year olds didn’t look for excuses to cuddle with their little brothers.  
  
“What did you want to talk about?” his father asked.  
  
“Well, it’s just…” And he had promised Sammy he wouldn’t tell, _promised_ him, but he wanted to. He wanted so badly to lay this worry on his father’s shoulders. It had taken Sam hours to get over the migraine from the last vision, and he’d been so tired the next day, it had scared Dean a little. He’d been comatose most of the day, barely responding to Dean’s pokes and questions.  
  
Fuck it. He was tired of dicking around, he was tired of worrying all the time and for God’s sake, it was his _father_. He trusted his father more than anyone. He even trusted him to do right by Sam. He opened his mouth to tell Dad the whole sorry mess, and then closed his mouth with a snap.  
  
He had _promised_ Sam he’d ask first and he’d never broken a promise to him. He wasn’t going to start now.  
  
“What do we know about psychics?”  
  
Dean didn’t look up from the knife, but he could feel Dad set down his favorite revolver and give him the patented John Winchester glare.  
  
“Why do you want to know, Dean?”  
  
He’d known his father wouldn’t take this as an idle question, and he had the answer all ready to go.  
  
“Some kids at school were talking about this psychic they go see. They get their fortunes told, their palms read. That sort of thing. They wanted me to go, but I said it was all bullshit.”  
  
His father didn’t say anything for a long moment, and Dean had to fight not to hold his breath. The silence had gone screaming past _slightly uncomfortable_ and landed right in the middle of _watch your fucking step, bub_.  
  
“Stay away from psychics, Dean.” His tone was firm.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You heard me.”  
  
“But… why?”  
  
The look Dad gave him was quelling. “Because I said so, that’s why.”  
  
“But Dad. If psychics can really work the mojo, why wouldn’t we take advantage of that? I mean, we could get tips on hunts, find out where bodies are buried—“  
  
“Dean.”  
  
His voice was quiet, but cut through Dean’s argument as swiftly as a shout.  
  
“Psychics are dangerous. The ones that aren’t outright frauds have usually made some sort of deal for their powers. I’ve been hunting for thirteen years and only ever met one psychic who maybe, _maybe_ , was the real thing. More often than not, they’ve got this… thing riding them. It’s like a kind of parasite. It takes the person over, and then wears the person like a suit. Sometimes for years. Most times, the host doesn’t survive. Only thing keeping them alive is the fucking thing inside them. I don’t want Sammy anywhere near that kind of thing. You keep your brother away from any goddamn psychics. You hear me? ”  
  
Dean nodded.  
  
“I didn’t catch that.”  
  
Dean swallowed. “Yes sir. I hear you.”  
  
“Good. You didn’t tell Sammy any of this nonsense about a psychic, did you?”  
  
“No sir.”  
  
“Alright. Tomorrow, see if you can get that psychic’s address.”  
  
“What? I thought you said you didn’t want us having anything to do with psychics?”  
  
Dad quirked an eyebrow. “I said I didn’t want you or Sammy having anything to do with psychics. But it sounds like it might be a hunt for me.”  
  
Dean’s palms were sweaty all of a sudden. “A hunt? But Dad, you said psychics are human, right?”  
  
He dabbed a little oil on a clean rag, and started wiping down his revolver again. “Some of them are.”  
  
Dean waited, but that seemed all his father was willing to say on the subject.  
  
“Dad, we don’t kill humans.”  
  
Dad smiled gently. “That’s right, son. We don’t kill humans.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
Sam waited for his brother to tell their father about the visions, but Dean stayed silent. He knew Dean thought letting Dad in on the situation was the right thing to do, but maybe Dean was hoping that the third time wouldn’t be the charm, and Sam wouldn’t have another vision. Sam knew that was what _he_ was hoping for.  
  
When the third vision hit, Sam tried to brace for it as best as he could, knowing what was coming this time. He didn’t stand a chance. It came from everywhere and nowhere, swamping his mind and erasing all thought, leaving him nothing to cling to, nothing to hold on to. All he was left with was the images, the residual emotions, and the pain.  
  
This time the vision Sam had was of a werewolf attacking a woman on the night of the full moon in Albuquerque. This time, it wasn’t helpful for the hunt he and his family were on. They were in the front seat of the Impala, watching the shoreline for a selkie on the shores of Lake Michigan. Nowhere near New Mexico.  
  
This time, the vision didn’t just leave him with a migraine, but a nosebleed as well.  
  
It was Dean that finally pulled him from the vision, Dean’s hands smoothing through his hair, grazing over his temples, Dean’s voice slowly piercing through the haze in his mind, Dean’s heartbeat, pounding heavy under his ear as Dean held him to his chest.  
  
Afterwards, Sam was practically comatose, and barely felt Dean maneuver him until he was lying with his head on Dean’s thigh. He didn’t notice Dean tip his head forward and hold a rag to his nose to stop the bleeding. Just like before, he felt the crippling migraine back off a step when Dean started rubbing his temples.  
  
“What did you see, Sammy?”  
  
“W-werewolf. In Albuquerque.”  
  
Dean’s fingers paused for a minute, starting again when Sam moaned softly in pain.  
  
“Sammy, we’re in Illinois.”  
  
“I know,” Sam whispered.  
  
“Sammy, Albuquerque’s in New Mexico.”  
  
“I know,” he said again.  
  
“Sammy, why the hell are you having visions about a werewolf in New Mexico?”  
  
Sam felt tears of pain and fear well up in his throat, and tried to stifle them. “I don’t know. I don’t know what the hell is going on.”  
  
“Sammy?”  
  
“I felt it, Dean. I felt it tear her apart. I could feel the claws ripping into her, feel the teeth ripping her throat open. She was screaming. Screaming for someone to help her, but no one came. She was so scared. I could smell the blood. Dean, there was so much blood.” Sam retched miserably because all he could smell was that hot, thick coppery scent.  
  
“Shush, Sammy. You’ve got a nosebleed. That’s what you smell. It’s okay.”  
  
“No, Dean. No, you don’t understand. I felt her pain, and her fear, and I could feel the blood dripping off her body. I can _still_ feel it.” He closed his eyes, feeling tears slip out from under his eyelids, and couldn’t help nuzzling a little into Dean’s hand when he brushed the tears away.  
  
“What did you touch? What caused the vision?”  
  
“I dunno. The last thing I remember is grabbing the road map out of the glove compartment.”  
  
Dean glanced over at the map that was now a crumpled mess in the foot well. “It’s a map of Texas and New Mexico. Do you suppose the werewolf or the woman touched the map at some point in time?”  
  
“I guess.”  
  
“Sammy, this is getting way freaky. First, you get a vision of a hunt we’re on. Fine. Then you get a vision of some normal broad getting dumped by her asshole husband. Well, we were living in her old apartment. Okay, I can accept that. But now you’re getting visions of something that’s taking place on the other side of the country from a freaking road map somebody might have touched, _when_? The last time we were in New Mexico? A year ago?”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Dean moved his hand to rub the back of Sam’s neck. “Sammy, how the hell are we gonna explain to Dad that we need to go to Albuquerque?”  
  
Sam tried to shrug and froze when the movement jarred his aching head. “I dunno, Dean. I dunno.”  
  
They missed the selkie that night. Dean was too worried about Sam to watch for it, and Sam was too wiped out after the vision to even think about it. The next day, Dean found an article in a national paper that talked about some animal attacks in New Mexico, and showed it to his father. Dad glanced it over and looked at him.  
  
“We can’t leave this hunt unfinished to go check out what might be a werewolf, Dean.”  
  
“I know Dad. But couldn’t we tell Joshua or Caleb about it, get them to go take a look?”  
  
He smiled, and ruffled Dean’s hair. “Yeah, we can do that. Great job, son.”  
  
Dean didn’t meet Sam’s eyes. “Thanks, Dad.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)

  
  
For Sam’s fifteenth birthday, the universe, in its infinite wisdom, decided to increase both the frequency and the intensity of the visions. By using a heavy mix of avoidance and deception, and with the help of Dean’s continued silence, Sam was able to hide them from Dad. He kept waiting to have one in front of his father, was scared to death of what would happen if he did, but they always seemed to happen when Dad was out, or away. Dean had never mentioned bringing up the visions to their father after the last time they talked about it. Sam assumed Dad had said something to change Dean’s mind. When he had asked Dean about it, Dean had shaken his head and changed the subject.  
  
Sam didn’t know _why_ it was so important to keep his new ability from his father, didn’t know why every cell in his body screamed in terror at the thought of telling Dad. All Sam knew was that at the thought of telling him about the visions, his stomach cramped up, his palms started sweating and he started seeing bright white spots in front of his eyes, like he was about to pass out.  
  
So, no, telling Dad was definitely off the menu for now.  
  
But, there was no point keeping the visions from Dean. He always knew. Sometimes it seemed like he knew even before the vision hit. He always had cool, damp cloths waiting to wash away the sweat and tears from Sam’s face, had the apartment or motel room as silent as possible; TV and radio off, windows shut to block out the noise. The old take-out containers would be gone, because Dean knew how sensitive Sam’s sense of smell was after a vision. If he had a vision when Dean wasn’t around, once the film cleared from his eyes, he’d drag himself to his bedroom, crawl into bed and wait. Dean was never long. It was like he knew when Sam had a vision and would race back from wherever he was to be with him. When Dean came home, he’d immediately crawl up beside him to stroke his hair, rub his neck, soothe away the pain and fear and listen to Sam’s garbled description of what he had seen, whether it was supernatural or not.  
  
The part Sam hated the most, aside from the pain and despair and the mind-numbing migraines, was the fact that he was completely helpless when a vision took him over. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t acknowledge anything outside of the vision that took over his brain. He’d had one happen in the park on the way home from school one day. When he came back to himself the pitying looks on people’s faces made him feel like even more of a freak. He hated it.  
  
Sometimes there’d be a peculiar smell, a combination of musty books and wet dog, that would warn him a vision was about to hit. It left a taste on the back of his tongue, metallic and bitter. Other times he’d hear a strange ringing in his ears. Sometimes, he’d have enough time to get himself home, or locked in a bathroom if he was out in public. More often though, the visions hit without any warning at all, and Sam was helpless until they stopped.  
  
The worst one happened while Sam was at school. When the vision hit, and Sam ended up going to the nurse’s office because of the nosebleed, they called Dean when they couldn’t reach Dad. Dad was out of town for the next two weeks, helping Jim Murphy with a hunt, but of course the school officials didn’t know that. All they knew was that John Winchester wasn’t answering his phone, and his youngest boy was sheet-white and trembling on an examination table in the nurse’s office. So they called his older brother.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
Dean was not having a great day. Since telling Dad was out of the question, between Sam’s refusal to tell him and Dad’s weird attitude about psychics, Dean had decided to bite the bullet and do some research. He’d tried to get Sam to help, but Sam’s quiet, ‘I already know I have visions, Dean. I don’t need to see it in black and white’ had Dean throwing up his hands in frustration and heading to the bookstore by himself. Dad didn’t keep a lot of books on hand after a hunt, since room was limited in the Impala, but Dean had found a small occult book shop in the neighboring town, and had picked up a few volumes on visions and the ability to see the future.  
  
He slammed the last book shut and shoved it across the table, watching with bitter satisfaction as it tumbled over the edge of the table and thudded to the floor. Nothing. Most of the stuff he’d found was nothing more than wishful thinking or pretty stories. There was nothing based in fact, nothing he could point a finger at and say _there, that’ll fix the problem_. He wondered if Bobby would hang up on him as soon as he heard Dean’s voice, or if he’d let him get a question or two out first. He sighed and figured it wasn’t worth the risk. If Dad found out he had called, there’d be hell to pay. He sighed again and ran a hand over his head.  
  
The only thing he’d been able to find was that Sammy was probably a telepath. Considering all the visions had happened after he’d touched something, he figured Sammy’s specific talent lay with touch. But that didn’t give them any information on how to stop the visions, or even control them. And the damn things were getting worse.  
  
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, and jumped a little when his phone started ringing. He glanced at it before he answered, but he didn’t recognize the number.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Is this Dean Winchester?” asked an unfamiliar voice.  
  
“Yeah, who’s this?”  
  
“Mr. Winchester, I’m calling from the nurse’s office at Westland High.”  
  
Dean was on his feet before the woman stopped speaking.  
  
“Is Sam okay?”  
  
“Can you come down here, Mr. Winchester?”  
  
He was already halfway out the door. “I’m on my way.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)

  
  
“Sammy?”  
  
Sam moaned softly. He’d barely been able to answer the nurse’s questions, the pain was so bad. He reached one hand out helplessly for Dean, almost sobbing when Dean caught his hand and cradled it against his chest.  
  
“Hold on Sammy, I’ll get you home soon, okay?”  
  
“Don’t—don’t let him, Dean. Don’t let him. Please Dean. Please, it hurts. It hurts so bad. Don’t let him—don’t…”  
  
The nurse looked on with concern written all over her face.  
  
“Does he have a history of seizures, Dean?”  
  
Dean shook his head. “It’s not epilepsy. He just gets really bad migraines. The doctor said he’s really stressed, takes too much on himself, worrying about school and stuff.”  
  
“Is everything okay at home?”  
  
Dean glared. “Yes. Everything is perfectly fine at home. No, my dad doesn’t beat Sam, or touch him in the wrong places. It’s just headaches.” He understood where the nurse was coming from. Sam looked so damn pale and fragile, lying there with traces of blood under his nose, barely coherent, clinging to Dean’s hand. He wanted to climb up on the table with him and hold him, rub his forehead, try to ease the migraine away. He really hated the pain the visions caused. Bad enough Sammy was trying to deal with this supernatural crap at fifteen, but the pain on top of it was just the kicker. But Dean didn’t need her trying to paint John Winchester as the villain of the piece. Ironic, considering Dad didn’t have a clue what his youngest was going through. If a tiny piece of Dean’s brain piped up – _why the hell doesn’t he know? How could he not have noticed what Sam’s been going through the last few months? What **I’ve** been going through?_ – he ignored it.  
  
The nurse looked doubtful, but nodded. “Okay. Well, I want him to stay for a little while, then you can take him home. He’s a little altered, but I don’t think he needs a hospital. It’s probably just the headache. When he gets a little more coherent, I’ll let you take him home, okay?”  
  
Dean nodded. “I’m staying with him.” His tone was final.  
  
The nurse smiled. “I hoped you would.” She busied herself with paperwork at her desk, ostensibly keeping an eye on her patient, but allowing the brothers some privacy.  
  
“Aw Sammy. What the hell happened, dude?”  
  
“Dean?”  
  
“Yeah buddy, I’m here.”  
  
“Hurts, Dean.”  
  
“I know, Sammy. I know. It’ll be better soon, I promise.”  
  
Dean stretched out a foot and hooked his ankle around a rolling stool, bringing it closer so he could sit down beside Sam without letting go of his hand. He leaned forward, using his free hand to brush the long bangs out of Sam’s face.  
  
“Need a haircut, buddy-boy.”  
  
“Don’ wanna.”  
  
Dean chuckled. “I know. How bad is it, Sammy? On a scale of one to ten?”  
  
Sam huffed under his breath. “About twenty-five.”  
  
“Jesus, dude.” Dean ran his fingers softly over the furrows in Sam’s brow, watching as they smoothed out a little under his touch. “Better?”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, it helps. Don’ stop.”  
  
“I won’t. I’m here, Sammy. It’s gonna be okay.”  
  
“You won’t let him, will you?”  
  
“Let who what, Sam?”  
  
“I’m so scared, Dean.”  
  
“Don’t be scared, Sammy. I’m here. I’ve gotcha. What is it? What did you see?” Dean whispered the last question so the nurse wouldn’t hear. He watched as another trickle of blood ran out of Sam’s nose. He wiped it away with his thumb. The nosebleeds were really starting to freak him out.  
  
“Dad,” Sam whispered.  
  
Dean had to think for a moment before he realized Sam was answering his last question. “Dad? Is he okay? Is it a hunt? What did you _see_ , Sam?”  
  
Sam’s eyelashes fluttered, the hazel eyes glazed with pain.  
  
“Sam! What did you see?” He hissed the question again, but the nurse must have heard something because her head lifted from her paperwork, and glanced over at them. Dean threw her a distracted smile, and turned back to his brother. Sam was boneless, that heavy sprawl that told him his brother was trying to escape the pain in sleep, but Dean shook his shoulder anyway.  
  
“Sam, what did you see?”  
  
Sam took a long breath, almost a snore and Dean didn’t think he was going to answer. Finally, his brother muttered. “Dad. Dad tried to… think he tried to kill me.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
The nurse made them wait until school was out, still trying to contact his father. Dean was impatient, wanting to get Sam home and in bed, instead of in a sterile office, but he knew there was nothing he could do at this point.  
  
When the nurse asked for the fifth time if there wasn’t some way to contact their father, Dean explained _again_ that Dad was a traveling salesman, and would be calling to check in tonight, like he always did, and that Dean was responsible for Sam when he was away _again_ the nurse finally relented.  
  
“Alright. Take him straight home. Make sure he gets lots of sleep, and fluids will help the migraine back off. Dehydration is the worst thing for headaches. Promise me you’ll call the doctor if things get worse?”  
  
Dean nodded solemnly. No way would he be calling a doctor. If things got worse, he’d call Bobby, or Jim. No way was he trusting his brother’s mystical headaches to some lame-ass doctor. They’d wind up calling in the head shrinks or something.  
  
He practically had to carry Sam out to the Impala, his arm around Sam’s shoulders, Sam’s shaggy head resting against his side. Despite all of Sam’s bitching about how his growth spurt was taking forever, he forgot sometimes how small Sam still was, how vulnerable and defenseless he could be. Sam’s personality made him appear so much bigger than he was, but now, with everything that was _Sam_ submerged under the pain, he seemed so young and fragile. It would be so easy for something to happen. For Sam to be taken from him.  
  
Dean got his brother home, got him changed into a t-shirt and boxers, and tucked him into bed. He was planning to make some supper, maybe soup, or something light that Sam could eat in bed, but the pained whimper Sam let out when he let go of him caused him to change his mind pretty damn quick.  
  
Dean stripped down and clambered into bed, wrapping his arms around the slight figure of his brother, cradling him against his body, his chest to Sam’s back, his arms wrapped tight around him, Sam’s head resting on his arm.  
  
He knew that it helped Sam, helped him get on top of the pain, if he gave Dean the details of the vision. It was like talking it out lessened the burden or something. But Sam wasn’t talking this time.  
  
“Sam?”  
  
Sam’s only reply was a soft breath, but Dean knew he wasn’t sleeping yet.  
  
“Sammy, tell me about what you saw. You know it makes the headaches better. C’mon, dude. Tell me what you saw.”  
  
“I—I can’t.” Sam whispered.  
  
“What do you mean you can’t?” Dean’s grip on his brother tightened. “You know you can tell me anything.”  
  
“Not this.”  
  
Dean rested his forehead against the back of Sam’s head, wishing he could just absorb Sam’s pain this way. It bothered him when he couldn’t help Sam, couldn’t carry his burdens for him. That’s what big brothers were supposed to do. He was so used to being able to brush Sam’s worries away. He remembered when Sam had been little, all eyes and curls and pouts. How he’d scrape his knee or his palm and come running to Dean to make it better. Dean, not Dad. He’d kiss the tiny wound, and Sam would beam at him like he was Batman and Superman rolled into one, his pain and hurt forgotten.  
  
Life would be so much simpler if Sam was still six.  
  
“Tell me Sammy. You said you thought Dad tried to kill you. You know that would never happen. So there’s gotta be more to it. It was a nightmare or something, it had to be. Dad would never hurt you, Sammy.”  
  
“He would if he knew what I am.”  
  
“What the hell does that mean, what you are? Sam, what the hell are you talking about?”  
  
Sam stiffened in Dean’s arms, and tried to pull away, but Dean wasn’t having any of that, no sir, no ma’am. “You tell me, little brother. You tell me right now what’s going on in that freaky-deaky brain of yours. Tell me what you saw.”  
  
“That’s exactly it, Dean. Freak. I’m a freak.” The self-loathing in Sam’s voice hurt Dean, in ways a knife or a gun couldn’t.  
  
“You’re not a freak. Shut your mouth. You’re not a freak, you’re my brother.”  
  
“I’m a psychic freak. I’m one of the things we hunt, Dean.”  
  
“No, you’re not. You don’t hurt people. You’d kill yourself before you’d hurt someone, Sam. You’re nothing like what we hunt.”  
  
Sam was silent for a long moment. Then, “Dad won’t think so.”  
  
Dean was tired of this shit. He pulled on Sam’s shoulder, careful not to jar his head, until the little brat was facing him, lines of tension and pain around his eyes.  
  
“Talk to me, Sam.”  
  
Sam sighed, his eyes closed. “Dad found out. That’s what I saw. Dad found out about the visions.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“He didn’t exactly take it well.”  
  
Dean actually had to stop and think about this for a minute.  
  
“The hell are you trying to say? That he tried to kill you because of the visions? Is that what you saw?”  
  
Sam didn’t say anything, but the way he pressed his forehead against Dean’s collarbone was answer enough. Dean couldn’t help but raise his hand and bury it in Sam’s hair, holding him close.  
  
“That’s bullshit, Sammy. Dad would never hurt you.”  
  
Sam shivered. “He was so angry,” he whispered. “You weren’t there. I had a vision, and you weren’t there, and he freaked out. He hit me. He said I was evil, said I wasn’t his son. He just kept hitting me. Over and over and over. Then he tried to exorcise me.”  
  
“Jesus. Sam, it’s okay. It’ll be okay. Dad didn’t know, that’s all. We won’t let that happen. C’mon, we stop what happens in your visions all the time. It’ll be okay.”  
  
“What if he’s right?”  
  
“Sam…”  
  
“What if he’s right, Dean? These visions, they’re not normal. I’m not normal. What if I am something wrong, something bad? Something evil?”  
  
Dean fisted the hand in Sam’s hair and pulled his brother’s head back, ignoring the protesting noise of pain Sam made. He waited until Sam met his eyes. “I want you to listen to me. You listening, Sam? You are _not_ evil. There’s _nothing_ wrong with you.”  
  
Sam’s eyes were full of tears, and Dean’s throat tightened. “You don’t know that.”  
  
“Yes I do. You’re my brother. You’re not evil. I know that with everything that I am, Sammy. It’s gonna be okay. I promise. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)

  
  
Dean worried more about Sam for the next few months than he ever had. Sam had always been first and foremost in Dean’s mind. Even if he wasn’t consciously aware of it, he never made a decision without thinking, _how will this affect Sam?_ But it was different now. Now, Dean watched his brother avoid their father in every possible way. He knew it wasn’t Sam’s teenage attitude, which was what Dad assumed, but actual fear. He was afraid of their father, which hurt Dean in places he didn’t even know he had. The unceasing arguments with his father had stopped. The snarky teenage attitude Sam had adopted the moment he hit puberty was gone. Sam kept his head down, his responses to questions short and to the point and Dean watched as Dad tried to futilely engage Sam in conversation about his day, only to see Sam escape as quickly as he could into their room.  
  
It became so bad that Dad finally noticed, and mentioned it to Dean. “You looking out for your brother?”  
  
Dean glanced up from the dishes. “Yeah, Dad. You know I am.”  
  
“He just seems… off.”  
  
Dean bit his lip. Off? Is that really all his father could come up with? He didn’t notice that Sam barely spoke when Dad was around? Or ate? That he was a ghost when Dad was home?  
  
“He’s fine. Math’s giving him some problems this year.”  
  
“But he’s okay, otherwise? You said he’d been sick.”  
  
“Yeah, but it was just the flu, Dad. Nothing to worry about.”  
  
Dad glared at him. “There’s always something to worry about with Sam. You need to keep your eye on him, Dean. I depend on you to watch out for your brother. You need to keep him safe! I thought we agreed on this?”  
  
Dean swallowed against the hurt flaring in his chest. “Dad, we do. I _do_ take care of Sam. All the time.”  
  
Dad turned to his journal. “Apparently not, if you’re dismissing him being sick like that.”  
  
“Dad—“  
  
Dad cut him off. “I want you to take care of your brother, Dean. You need to look out for him. End of discussion. Understand?”  
  
Dean nodded grimly. He wanted to scream at his father, wanted to shout that it wasn’t fair, that he _did_ take care of Sam, always. He wanted to throw Sam’s visions in his father’s face, make him see what his youngest was going through, what they had been dealing with all by themselves because Sam was too scared to tell their dad the truth, and Dad was never there anyway. Wanted to demand why it was Dean that had to take care of Sam, watch out for him so vigilantly, when it should have been his father looking out for him.  
  
But he bit back the tears of rage and hurt, and kept washing the dishes. There was no point arguing with Dad. He rushed through the rest of his chores, knowing Sam was waiting for him in their room, knowing he’d feel better when they could curl up together and watch the Simpsons.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
A few days later, Sam was sent home from school again. Dean had left work early, wanting to get the grocery shopping done while Sam was safe and supervised, planning to return to the school later to pick him up. When he heard Sam’s step outside the door, he practically flew to meet him.  
  
“What the hell, Sammy? You okay? You have another vision? Why didn’t you call me?”  
  
Sam grinned tiredly. “No, no vision. I’m fine, Dean.”  
  
“Sam, you’re home two hours early. If you didn’t have a vision, did something else happen?”  
  
“I fell asleep in class.”  
  
Dean actually had to run that statement through his head three times before he could understand it. “You what?”  
  
Sam rubbed a hand through his hair. “I fell asleep in class. Mrs. Brigham sent me home, with a note for Dad.”  
  
“Sammy, what the hell? You’ve never fallen asleep in class before.”  
  
Sam shrugged, dumped his knapsack on the chair by the door, and then slumped on the couch. “Yeah, well. I was tired.”  
  
“Sam.” Dean settled beside him. “Tell me what’s going on.”  
  
Sam shrugged. “It’s nothing, Dean. I’ve just… I’ve just been having a little trouble sleeping lately. I guess it caught up with me.”  
  
Dean looked Sam over, really _looked_. He winced a little. Sam looked exhausted. Dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, slumped shoulders, and a general air of being so worn out he just didn’t give a fuck.  
  
“Why didn’t you say anything?”  
  
Sam laughed. “What were you gonna do, get up with me and make me some warm milk?”  
  
Dean cuffed him softly on the back of the head. He was always careful smacking Sam’s head now, not sure how badly the visions were fucking with him, and not wanting to give him that one smack that sent him over the edge into brain damage territory.  
  
“Is it the visions?”  
  
Sam shrugged. “No. I dunno. I just can’t sleep.”  
  
“Okay then.” Dean stood and grabbed Sam’s shoulder, pulling him up from the couch.  
  
“What are you doing? Dean, what—“  
  
“Let’s go, Sammy boy. I could pack half of the Impala’s trunk in the bags under your eyes. We’re taking a nap.”  
  
“No, Dean! C’mon, I don’t want a nap.”  
  
“Well, I do, and the only way I’ll make sure you’re not getting into trouble is if you take a nap with me. Move it.”  
  
“Dean, no!” Dean registered that Sam wasn’t playing, he was actually trying to resist, but he didn’t care. It was his job to take care of Sam, and he was going to do it, whether Sam liked it or not. He turned, and with one quick move had Sam draped over his shoulder. Sam squawked in surprise.  
  
“Dean!”  
  
“Aw, cram it Sammy. We’re taking a nap. Suck it up.”  
  
Sam fought dirty, the way Dean and Dad had taught him. He used feet, and fists, and elbows, and even buried his teeth in the meat of Dean’s side in an attempt to get him to drop him, but he was small for his age. Dean ignored him until he got to their bedroom, and he could dump Sam on his bed. When he tried to scramble away, Dean lunged.  
  
“C’mon, Sammy. A nice nap for the wittle baby.”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
Dean arranged Sam’s stiff limbs to his satisfaction, holding him the way he had the day Sam had the vision at school, Sam’s back to his front. He buried his nose in the hair at the nape of Sam’s neck. “Go to sleep, Sammy. You’re safe, I gotcha.”  
  
Sam didn’t answer, but Dean felt the tension gradually drain out of his brother’s body and smiled. By the time Sam started snoring, Dean was already asleep.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=SPN_BigBang_naptime-1.jpg)

  
  
When he woke up later that night, with Dean tightly wrapped around him, he felt more rested then he had in a long time and it was everything he could do not to just relax back into sleep. He tried to squirm away, but Dean’s arms tightened around him, and he ended up pulled back against his brother’s chest. The problem, Sam thought, wasn’t that he couldn’t sleep. It was that he couldn’t sleep without Dean.  
  
“Where you going?” Dean mumbled, still half asleep.  
  
“Let me go, Dean.”  
  
“Why, what’s wrong?”  
  
And that was the million dollar question, wasn’t it? Because how was he supposed to tell Dean that the reason he wasn’t sleeping was because he only felt safe in Dean’s arms? He was fifteen years old, not five, for God’s sake. But with Dean’s arms around him, with the smell of gun oil and leather and cinnamon gum in his nose, and Dean’s warmth pressed against him, he could finally let go, slip into sleep and not be afraid of what might get him, either out in the real world or in his mind. Dean’s presence kept the dreams at bay.  
  
He was just so fucking _tired_.  
  
“I can’t sleep,” he muttered finally, just for something to say.  
  
“Yeah, I got that. What’s wrong? Why the hell can’t you sleep, Sammy?”  
  
He could feel everything he wanted to say caught in a big lump in his throat. It felt like he was choking on it. He wanted to roll over, press his face against Dean’s chest the way he used to when he was little, when Dean seemed so big and strong and fearless, and Sam believed that nothing could hurt him when his big brother was around.  
  
He felt Dean’s hand, hard and strong, but so gentle, card through his hair and he sobbed silently.  
  
“Can’t you talk to me, Sammy? Can’t you tell me what’s wrong?”  
  
Sam shook his head.  
  
“You know you can tell me anything. Nothing you can say that’s gonna make me mad, Sam. You know I got your back, right?”  
  
Sam nodded. He knew that, he did. It just… it felt like he was standing on a yawning precipice, and opening his mouth was taking that first terrifying step into freefall. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t admit to one more weakness, when he had so many. Couldn’t allow Dean to pity him, or try to take care of him anymore than he already did.  
  
Then he felt Dean’s breath on the back of his neck, felt the soft brush of Dean’s lips against his skin as he talked.  
  
“Do you remember when I got cursed by that witch?” Dean asked.  
  
“No,” Sam whispered.  
  
“You were about six, I think. I helped Dad burn her spell book, and she cursed us. If we tried to sleep, we had nightmares. God, those dreams. The worst things I’d ever seen. Most horrible things I could imagine. I kept seeing all of these awful things, kept seeing you—“ Dean stopped talking, the silence echoing with all the things he didn’t say. He took a deep breath and continued. “I finally decided to stay up, just to wait it out. Bobby and Dad were working on reversing the spell and I knew they were close. But I was exhausted. I fell asleep, probably around midnight. They broke the curse just before dawn. But it didn’t matter. I was already sleeping fine by that point.”  
  
“What? How?”  
  
“You really don’t remember?”  
  
Sam shook his head.  
  
“I woke up in the middle of the night from a real bitch-fest of a dream, and you were sitting on the edge of the bed with my gun in your hands. Scared me to death. I don’t even know how you lifted it. It looked so huge in your hands. I asked you, real soft, ‘cause I didn’t want to startle you, what you were doing. You wouldn’t even look at me. You were just looking all around the room. So I said again, ‘What the hell are you doing with my gun, Sammy?’ You finally looked over at me, serious as all hell, your face nothing but eyes and you know what you said?”  
  
Like always, he was caught in the web that Dean’s voice created. “What?”  
  
“You said, ‘Go back to sleep, Dean. I’ll keep watch. It’s okay, go back to sleep.’ And somehow, I knew you were right. So I did. Slept the clock ‘round and never had another dream.”  
  
Dean’s arms tightened around him.  
  
“So you see, I owe you a good night’s sleep, Sammy. I _owe_ you.”  
  
Sam bit his lip. He could feel one foot hovering over the empty space of the chasm. He was going to fall and the crash was going to be spectacular. He gathered all of the trust he had in his brother and jumped.  
  
“I can’t sleep without you. I can’t shut off my stupid brain. The only time I sleep anymore is when you lie down with me after a vision. I lie in that damn bed, and look at you sleeping across the room, and I want to climb into bed with you. I lie awake all night wishing I was brave enough to do it.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Dean.”  
  
He didn’t know what he expected to happen, aside from Dean pushing him out of the bed and mocking him forever. Dean took care of him, always, but this was so much more. This was dependency, when the Winchester way was independence, in everything. This was needing someone so badly you literally could not function without them.  
  
With a soft sigh, Dean pulled him closer. “Go to sleep, Sammy. I’ll keep watch. It’s okay. Go back to sleep.”  
  
He wasn’t falling. He was buoyed up, held safe in the arms of the one person he trusted more than anyone else in the world. Sam closed his eyes and slept.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
Dean slept with Sam almost every night after that. The only problem was they couldn’t sleep in the same bed when Dad was home. He’d forced them to start sleeping in separate beds when Dean turned thirteen. Sam had cried for a week, but Dad had held firm. It wasn’t right. They were too old and needed their own space. Dean had always complained about the way Sam squirmed and kicked in his sleep, so by rights he should have pleased and relieved. On top of that, it wasn’t very cool, waking up with morning wood pressing into his nine year old brother’s ass. Despite this, when Dad had put his foot down, he hadn’t slept right for months. Knowing Sam was safe across the room in the fold-up cot, or in Dad’s bed, or in the living room, wasn’t the same as knowing he was safe beside Dean.  
  
Now though, now, Sam slept tucked under Dean’s chin, head pillowed on Dean’s chest, his soft breaths fluttering against Dean’s skin. Dean was sleeping better than he had in a long time, and the dark circles were disappearing from under Sam’s eyes. Sam’s nightmares disappeared and Dean slept deeply and undisturbed, Sam’s warm body wrapped snug in his arms. By unspoken agreement, they ignored the morning wood, whether it was Dean’s pressed against Sammy’s ass, or Sammy’s pressed against Dean’s hip. He refused to think about how right it felt, to have Sammy wrapped around him like that. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered but that Sam was safe and was finally able to get some sleep. It was great, when Dad was gone.  
  
When Dad was home, it was harder. Everything was harder. Sam still wouldn’t talk to Dad, would barely stay in the same room with him, and it was awful when Dad insisted that they come with him on a hunt. The silence was deafening, the tension radiating off Sam’s body was practically visible, and Dad was clueless, chalking it up to teenage angst and hormones. Worse, Dad was always _watching_ Sam now, questioning everything he did, wanting to know _why_ Sam was avoiding him, _why_ he refused to answer questions, _why_ he refused to discuss the latest hunt with him. Dean was quickly running out of excuses, and Sam was exhausted from running punishment laps.  
  
Bedtime was the worst, crawling into his bed alone, watching Sammy move slowly into his bed, his big eyes sad and miserable. Nightmares plagued him and if a vision hit, the aftermath clung to him for hours afterwards, impossible to shake off completely. Dean would lie awake long after Sam finally fell into a thin sleep, trying to watch over his brother and protect him from his dreams, but completely helpless, cut off by a mere three foot gap between the beds.  
  
After another endless night of watching Sam toss and turn, crying out miserably in his sleep, Dean had enough. He waited until he could hear his father’s soft snores from the living room, and crept quietly into Sam’s bed. He curled up on his side, close behind Sam’s body, and pulled his brother into his arms.  
  
He thought Sam was still asleep until the soft voice said, “Dean, you can’t. Dad’ll catch us.”  
  
“Shh, Sam. It’s okay. Dad’s asleep. I’m exhausted and you’re completely wiped and we _need_ this. So just… go to sleep. It’s okay.”  
  
“But…”  
  
“No buts. I’m the oldest, so what I say goes. We’re sleeping.”  
  
Sam huffed irritably, but Dean knew Sam better than he knew himself, and he knew Sam was secretly pleased. The way Sam wiggled his body backwards into Dean’s embrace until they were aligned perfectly, Sam’s ass cradled by Dean’s hips, Dean’s arm draped over Sam’s middle and his other arm under Sam’s head. He completely surrounded Sam. Nothing could get to him without going through Dean first.  
  
He curled his fingers so they were tangled in Sam’s shirt, his pinkie finger just grazing the soft skin of Sam’s belly, and he ignored the flash of heat that shuddered through him at the thought of grazing his fingers down just a little bit lower. Sam made a low murmur in the back of his throat, already half asleep, and Dean forced the thought away.  
  
They fell asleep like that, Dean’s nose buried in Sam’s hair, Sam’s hand wrapped around Dean’s forearm, their legs entwined.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)

  
  
Dean would often think about Sam’s vision, and what his father had said about psychics. He couldn’t equate the father that he had seen tear through all manner of supernatural creatures threatening his youngest to the hateful monster that Sam described. He was sure that Sam hadn’t actually had a vision about Dad. Sam had had a nightmare, something detailed and horrible, certainly, but only a dream. Just a dream.  
  
He didn’t share this insight with Sam, not wanting to see the betrayed look that would cross Sam’s face at having his fears dismissed as nothing more than a dream. He knew his father could be pretty close-minded when it came to the supernatural. The discussion he and Dad had had about psychics only cemented that knowledge. But this was _Sammy_. Baby Sammy with his curls, and his pout, and his big dewy eyes. No way Dad could ever hurt Sam. No way.  
  
The problem, and the reason Dean was torn about his decision to keep Sam’s ability a secret, was the effect the visions were having on Sam. The backlash was escalating with every vision, the migraines lasting longer, the nosebleeds harder to stop, the insomnia growing more pervasive. Even more worrisome was the way Sam seemed to get lost in the visions. Dean had been witness to dozens of the visions at this point, and it was frightening how _gone_ Sam was. There was no Sam left during a vision, it was just an empty shell, a doll with blank eyes. Dean could shake him, yell his name, pinch him, even slap him, but there was no response.  
  
Dean came home from a run to the store one day, and found Sam in the grip of a vision while a pan burned on the stove. It was probably one of the most terrifying moments in his admittedly terrifying life. But he dared anyone _not_ to be terrified when faced with the sight of their little brother staring blank-eyed into space, his hand holding onto a melting pot, while oil bubbled and hissed and flared alight on the hot element. Dean had knocked Sam’s hand away with a shout, appalled at the angry blisters on his brother’s skin. By the time Sam came out of the vision to the double whammy of a major migraine and second-degree burns, his hand was cleaned and bandaged, he’d been forced to swallow some major pain killers and he was already lying in bed. Dean had Sam lying so his head was pillowed on Dean’s chest, Dean’s arms wrapped around him. Dean’s tears were dry by that point and he knew it would never occur to Sam to blame him, but the fact remained: Sam hadn’t been safe. It had been Dean’s watch, and Sam had gotten hurt. He wasn’t safe.  
  
Dean started watching Sam even more closely after that, scared to death that a vision could happen while Sam was in the shower, or going down the stairs, or walking across the street. He couldn’t even think about one happening while on a hunt. He could barely stand to leave Sam alone. What was even worse was that Sam didn’t seem to mind Dean’s scrutiny, which freaked Dean out more than a little.  
  
Before the visions started, Sam had been a prickly little sonuvabitch. He’d always been self-sufficient, sometimes to a fault. Even when he was a toddler he’d been independent, demanding that Dean let him do it, let him try, “Want to do it _myself_ , Dean!”, refusing to let Dean help. This resulted in shoe-lace tying that took hours, and a pouting Sammy if Dean had stepped in to finish the job or check Sam’s work. As Sam got older, it had only gotten worse, with Sam scowling fiercely if anyone attempted to help him with anything, ranging from school work to Latin translations.  
  
Now, Sam was still independent, still wanted to do everything himself, but he seemed to realize that he couldn’t anymore. He seemed to understand that he _needed_ Dean, in a way he’d been pretending he’d grown out of for a long time. He needed Dean’s protection during the vision, his support afterwards, his patience and his care and his comfort. He needed Dean to hold him up and keep him from dissolving in pain and fear after every waking dream. Dean had half expected Sam to withdraw from him because of this reliance, angry that he was being forced to give up some of his long-fought-for independence, but in fact the opposite was true. Suddenly, he and Sam were closer than they’d been in long time. Gone were the nights Dean laid awake wondering what had happened to the bright-eyed six year old who worshiped the ground he walked on, who considered his word law, and who wanted Dean when he had a nightmare, not their father. Gone were the days when Dean tried to remember how to talk to Sam, tried to find the right words to make Sam listen, to make him hear. It never used to be so hard. Time was he opened his mouth and the words Sam needed were right there. Now, it seemed like if he had a thought, Sam finished it. If Sam needed something, Dean knew what it was before Sam did. It was like a door Dean didn’t know was closed had swung wide open.  
  
Dean would never have wished this painful curse on his brother, never in a million years. He’d always wanted more for Sam than hunting. Sam was so damn smart. Dean had always imagined Sam going off to college someday. He and Dad would make wherever Sam went their home base. He and Dad would get jobs, and they’d work while Sam was at school, and they’d go hunting on weekends and Sam’s breaks, as a family. That was Dean’s dream. For Sam to make something of himself.  
  
But it was never going to happen now, unless they could figure out a way to make the damn visions go away, and _that_ was never going to happen if they couldn’t get some fucking help. Dean had run out of places to search. He was aching to get his hands on Bobby’s library, but any request to drive through South Dakota was met with a scowl and a warning look. Bobby was _persona non grata_. Which meant Dean had no way to help Sam, other than making the occasional cold compress, and making sure the extra-strength aspirin was stocked up.  
  
All of this meant that Sam was stuck with Dean, stuck tighter than he’d ever been and a small, mean part of Dean couldn’t help but be grateful to whatever god might listen to the prayers of someone like him. If Sam couldn’t go anywhere without Dean, then Sam couldn’t go anywhere without Dean, which meant Dean didn’t have to worry about getting left behind. It would be _Sam and Dean_ forever, which was all Dean had ever wanted since he was four years old.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)


	3. Chapter 3

Three things happened the year Sam turned sixteen.   
  
First, it seemed overnight Sam turned from a short tubby dwarf, Dean’s words, not his, into a creature that was all elbows and knees, with a bottomless pit for a stomach. Every time Sam woke up it felt like he’d grown another inch. Dean had to drag Sam to a different Salvation Army or Goodwill store at every town they stayed in for longer than a week. His joints ached constantly, a dull throb that aspirin didn’t even touch. He felt like he was being stretched, every day meaning an extra turn on the rack. It made him clumsy. He couldn’t get out of his own way, couldn’t make the long limbs do what he wanted them to. Dad had Dean training him every time he turned around, giving him extra drills, more hand-to-hand combat, encouraging him to use his extra reach. Dean would cover for him as best as he could, reluctant to make Sam move when he was hurting, but even Dean could only do so much. If Dad didn’t see the results he expected when he came home, there’d be hell to pay from both of them, and Sam refused to put Dean in that kind of position. He knew how much it bothered Dean to still be lying to Dad about the visions, and he knew how much Dean worried about his headaches and his nosebleeds. So Sam stumbled through the extra runs, fumbled through the extra sparring sessions, his head pounding and his joints aching, and Dean following his every move with nervous troubled eyes.   
  
Second, the visions got worse. Much worse. He could no longer take the chance that he could touch an object without experiencing excruciating pain. When the visions first started, he’d get one every couple of months. Over time, that had escalated to one every few weeks. Now, Sam was getting one every few days, sometimes one at a time, which was bad enough, but more often, he was getting what Dean had taken to calling a ‘cluster-fuck vision’, where any touch would set off first one vision, then another and another and another. They would hit hard and fast, little tiny starbursts going off behind his eyes at the slightest brush of his hand against an object or person, giving him unwanted glimpses of other lives, glimpses he had no control over. Before one ended, another would start, leaving Sam drowning in sensation, more helpless than ever before. Brief snatches of sight, of sound, sometimes smell, left him so battered and disorientated, he often passed out from the sensory overload.   
  
The third thing, worse than the blinding pain or the psychic powers he didn’t understand, was the dream.   
  
At first, he could only remember bits and pieces. He’d wake up, stiff and trembling with his cock hard in his boxers. Pieces of the dream started coming back to him, random little flashes throughout the day, and he almost drowned himself in the bathtub when he realized that he was dreaming of himself with another guy. He couldn’t be gay. He _couldn’t_ be. How was he supposed to tell Dean he was gay, on top of everything else? How could he ask Dean to accept yet one more thing about him?   
  
He forced himself to notice girls, to stare at the waitresses in the diners they went to, to look when Dean pointed out a hot girl walking down the sidewalk. If he didn’t admit it, if he closed his eyes and pretended he’d never had the damn dream, maybe it wouldn’t be real.  
  
Except for the fact it happened again. Night after night, he woke with bits and pieces of another man flashing through his mind. Pale skin, strong yet gentle hands, a voice that whispered to him, words of love and forever. But never a face, never anything recognizable that he could pin down.   
  
He always woke from the dreams panicked, breath rasping in and out, his fists clenched in the sheets. _Not gay, not gay, not gay_ , he’d whisper, being careful not to wake Dean.  
  
He was terrified Dean would figure it out, just be able to look at him one day and _know_ , so he tried to pull back from Dean a little, tried to put some space between them. He curled himself on the edge of the mattress at night instead of against Dean’s chest. He didn’t care if it caused him more sleepless nights. He just didn’t want Dean to turn away from him. Dean didn’t seem to be on board with the plan, however. He would let Sam go to sleep however he wanted, but the moment Sam whimpered from a nightmare, he’d pull Sam closer, without even waking up. After a couple of weeks, Sam gave up. He thanked God for Dean’s typical obliviousness.  
  
The dream never featured anyone he recognized, but Sam knew he loved him. And he, whoever he was, loved Sam. The way Sam felt when he woke from each and every dream, safe and loved and treasured, caused him to stare at every male face he saw. He was always looking for something recognizable, searching for the face of the one he knew he loved, but none of them looked familiar. Or did anything to excite him. None of them were the man he was looking for. He resigned himself to the fact that his dream lover was just that, a dream. A mish-mash of different people combined together to form his imaginary partner. In a way, he was grateful. At least he didn’t have to worry about running into his dream guy on the street and completely embarrassing himself.  
  
Then one night Sam sat bolt upright from the best, and worst dream yet. They had both been naked, skin to skin, hands grasping whatever they could reach. Sam was straddling his lap, their hard cocks rubbing against each other with each roll of Sam’s hips. It felt so good, the other man hot against him, wrapping his hand around both their cocks and jacking them together, and Sam was certain he was going to die from pleasure. Then his dream lover whispered one word.   
  
“ _Sammy_.”   
  
Sam shot out of sleep like someone had just set the bed on fire. He was panting for breath, sweat streaking his chest, dick hard in his boxers. There was only one person who called him that, in that fond and exasperated voice. One person.  
  
He glanced to his left, at the still sleeping form of his older brother. Dean snored softly and then, as if he felt Sam’s eyes on him even in his sleep, flung one arm out to tug Sam back against him so they were lying spooned against each other.  
  
Every night, all night long, he was dreaming about Dean.  
  
Dean’s skin, pale and soft with freckles everywhere, dusted with fine golden hairs. Dean’s eyes, so green and vibrant, full of love and longing. Dean’s hands, strong and callused, but ever so gentle as they stroked over Sam’s body, touching him, holding him. Sometimes his hands were rough, gripping him, holding him close, and Sam was _so totally fucking screwed_. He closed his eyes against the tears that wanted to fall, bit his lip against the sobs.  
  
It wasn’t enough that he had the goddamned visions. Not enough that he was a supernatural freak who couldn’t be trusted on his own for fear he’d step in front of a bus, or fall down an elevator shaft. No, he had to go and fall in love with his older brother.  
  
He’d never been in love before, but there was no other word that described the aching loneliness in his chest on the rare times when Dean left him alone. Nothing else could compare to the way his whole world brightened when Dean smiled at him, his real smile. How just feeling Dean’s arms around him made him feel so safe. Of course he loved Dean, more than anyone else in the world.   
  
And because he loved him, he could never tell him the truth. If Dean knew, if he had an inkling of the things Sam dreamed about, wished for… Sam stared out into the dark room and shuddered.   
  
A gentle hand slid over his head. “Shush, Sammy. S’okay. S’only a dream.” Dean mumbled, still asleep.  
  
Sam closed his eyes again. He wouldn’t let this destroy what he had with Dean. He could keep this secret from Dean, could protect Dean the way he was always protecting Sam. He wouldn’t let whatever the hell was wrong with him, that would let him fall in love with _his brother_ , taint Dean. He’d die first.  
  
But in the dark comfort of the bedroom, he bent his head and let his lips graze against the soft skin of his brother’s forearm, and wished with all his heart for something _more_.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)

  
  
One day, Dean came home with a small box in his hand and opened it on the bed in front of Sam. He pulled out a beautifully made pair of leather gloves. “I thought these might help.”  
  
“Help with what?”  
  
“Your hands are almost the same size as mine.”  
  
Sam was mystified at this little piece of information. “Yeah, and?”  
  
“I got them made to my measurements. I got the guy to wear gloves while working on them, so you wouldn’t get anything from him, and then we purified them with salt and holy water. Just in case. I wore them for three hours afterwards. You never get anything off me, so I figured my aura or whatever would block any other residual impressions. You shouldn’t get any kind of blowback from them. I was thinking they might help with the visions.”  
  
Sam stared at his brother, amazed at the amount of effort Dean had gone to. He gingerly reached out a hand, ran a finger along the soft leather. He held his breath for a moment, but when nothing happened, he pulled the gloves over into his lap and began pulling them on.   
  
The leather was warm, as if it was still retaining Dean’s body heat. The gloves molded to his hands as if they’d been made just for him. They were soft, and smelled of leather and Dean when Sam brought them to his nose. He held his breath, waiting for a vision to hit, but nothing happened. He felt surrounded by Dean’s concern and love, could feel how much his brother cared for him, but there was nothing supernatural about it. It was no vision. It was just Dean.   
  
“You okay, Sammy?”  
  
Sam grinned. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good Dean. Thank you.”  
  
He tried to duck away when Dean ruffled his hair, but he wasn’t fast enough. He decided to just enjoy the feel of Dean’s fingers in his hair, one of the small touches that meant so much more to him now that he knew he loved his brother.  
  
“You’re welcome, Sammy. You’re welcome.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
Dean prided himself on being a normal guy. He liked fast cars, good food, and hot women, not necessarily in that order. His eyes were always peeled for a good time with a bad girl, or hell, a bad time with a good girl. He’d been that way since he was thirteen and realized girls were good for something besides cheating off of during history tests. He’d eat pie any time of the day or night and wouldn’t touch broccoli if threatened at gunpoint. Sam had always come first for him and always would. That was something that would never change.  
  
So when he woke up early one morning and smiled at the sight of his baby brother pressed against his chest, one fist curled against his bare chest and the other wedged under Dean’s shoulder, he didn’t think anything of it. And when he watched Sam lean against the kitchen counter and drain a glass of milk, head tilted back and Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, Dean didn’t notice that he was focused more on the way Sam’s throat looked, all long and lean, or the way the muscles in Sam’s arm moved under his skin, or that his eyes were glued to the strip of skin between the bottom of Sam’s shirt and the waistband of his pants. He really didn’t notice.  
  
But when he stood under the shower later that day, cursing at the miserable flow of water from the showerhead, and took his cock in hand to indulge in one of his favorite pastimes (right behind irritating Sammy and driving the Impala) it wasn’t the waitress that he’d kissed in the alley behind the restaurant, or the hot bartender at the pool hall that he pictured. It wasn’t Mrs. Anderson, who was quite possibly the hottest fucking cougar he’d ever have the pleasure to meet, or George from the body shop three towns back, who had given Dean the best blow job of his life.  
  
No, it was that tantalizing strip of honey brown skin that had flashed before his eyes while Sam drank his milk.  
  
He pushed the image away irritably, refusing to think about it and instead tried to remember the way George’s throat had tightened around his dick when he swallowed, or the way Mrs. Anderson’s tits had pushed against the tiny little cotton blouses she loved to wear. But just as he got into the fantasy, he’d see that flash again in his mind’s eye, and he was harder than he’d ever been.  
  
He twisted his fist over the head of his cock, panted a little at how good it felt and decided to go with it. It was his fucking head and sure, it made him a goddamn pervert, but it wasn’t like he was going to _do_ anything about it. He pictured pulling that thin t-shirt over Sam’s head, watching the way it messed up his already hopeless bedhead, and imagined pushing that lanky body against the kitchen counter and holding it there with the weight of his own. Sam would groan, try to push back, but wouldn’t be able to get any leverage. He’d push one hand through that mop of hair, tilt Sam’s head back until he liked the angle, and then he’d possess that smart mouth, finally shut it up for a minute. His other hand would roam over Sam’s chest, feeling the silken skin, the heat from it, the way the sweat would spring up on Sam’s body, pinching and rubbing at Sam’s nipples until they hardened into points, and Sam was making these sexy little noises under his breath.  
  
Sam would be panting against his lips when he pulled back, his eyes glazed and half-lidded. He’d grind against him, press him harder against the counter, trapped between Dean’s dick and the hard surface, and Sam would whimper helplessly. His hands would be on Dean’s arms. His fingers would be digging into Dean’s biceps, like he didn’t know whether to drag Dean closer or push him away. He’d pull back for a minute, give Sam time to decide what he wanted, because fuck if he was going to force Sam into anything. Then Sam would moan softly, moan Dean’s name and pull him in, tilting his head back again and offering himself, offering anything Dean wanted, saying he loved him—  
  
With a groan and a curse, Dean came over his fist in spurts, shaking so hard he had to brace himself against the shower wall with one hand.  
  
He looked down at the mess he’d made, and summed up the situation in one sentence.  
  
“Well, fuck.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)

  
  
Dean didn't like to over think things. Over thinking led to brooding, which led to Sam's taste in music and emo-hair. Dean was a take-charge, fly by the seat of his pants, kind of guy. He listened to his gut, followed his instincts. They had never led him wrong before.  
  
Still, this was an unusual situation, to say the least. Lusting after your little brother certainly demanded at least _some_ thinking time.  
  
So that night, while Sam slept peacefully beside him, curled against his chest, Dean took stock of certain things he’d been noticing lately.  
  
First of all, he spent a lot of time watching his brother. Not just watching him, but _watching_ him. Dean had no idea how many times he’d caught himself eyeing Sam’s long body, and just pushed the thought away. He wasn’t _that_ guy, that sick pervert who preyed on his little brother.   
  
But it seemed like sometimes, Sam was watching him back.  
  
And that added another layer to the whole mess. Because if Sammy felt the same way, then it wasn’t just Dean making shit up in his head, and being a perverted bastard. If Sammy felt the same way, then it meant Dean wasn’t alone in this.  
  
He wondered if he should be freaking out about suddenly finding himself sexually attracted to his little brother. As far as he knew, he wasn’t even gay. But the thought of touching Sam that way flooded his body with heat so fast his knees buckled, and sweat broke out on his forehead, and didn’t really leave a lot of room for freaking out.  
  
He decided to follow his gut. He needed to test the waters with Sam, see if he did feel the same, without coming right out and asking. He had to be careful. If it was one-sided, if it was just Dean imaging things, he couldn’t let it affect Sam. Sam needed him, more than ever, and if things got awkward between them, it would just screw everything up. He couldn’t let Sam feel pressured, or forced.  
  
He’d protect Sam, no matter what. Even from himself, if it came to that.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
Dean started a slow campaign of seduction.   
  
He cataloged each reaction he got from Sam. He watched as Sam’s eyes glazed over when Dean stretched his arms over his head, pulling his shirt up and revealing the abs he’d worked hard for. He watched as Sam would try to subtly adjust himself in his pants when Dean came out of the bathroom after his shower in only a towel. He listened to the way Sam’s breath sped up when Dean wrapped his arms around him at night when they went to bed.  
  
He didn’t do anything overt, nothing that he hadn’t done a million times before. Nothing that would make Sam uneasy, or uncomfortable, if he didn’t feel the same. But it was different now. Now, he was trying to let Sam know that it was okay. No, it wasn’t normal. It was a world of wrong. But that didn’t change how he felt, and how he was beginning to believe Sam felt.   
  
But he had to wait for Sam to make the next move. He could open the door, he could extend the invitation, but he couldn’t cross the line. Sam was the younger brother. Dean was the protector, the big brother, and he’d kill himself before he pushed Sam into anything he wasn’t ready for or was uncomfortable with. He’d wait however long it took. Forever, if need be.  
  
But as Dean jerked off in the shower again, thoughts of Sam filling his head, he really hoped Sam decided to get with the program before that.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)

  
  
“Stay here, Sammy. I’ll only be gone a couple of hours. Stay in bed, get some sleep and by the time I get home, your headache will be gone and we’ll order some pizza, okay?”  
  
Sam nodded and watched Dean leave through sleep-hazed eyes. Dad wanted Dean to make a supply run for ammo before he got back from the latest hunt. Sam was supposed to go too, but another vision had hit and he was still recovering. He dozed off to the sound of the Impala’s engine grumbling away in the distance and didn’t wake again until he heard the front door slam shut.   
  
He stumbled out of bed, grateful that Dean had been right, and his headache had vanished with more sleep. He didn’t plan to tell Dean that, though. He had absolutely no desire to watch that self-satisfied smirk spread over his brother’s face. Even if it was sexy as hell.  
  
He headed out to the kitchen, planning to tell Dean he wanted pepperoni _and_ sausage on his pizza, and stopped dead in the doorway.  
  
“Dad.”  
  
“Hey, Sam. Hunt was a wash. Wasn’t a Black Dog, just a black dog.” His father chuckled at his own joke, and Sam tried a stiff smile. He hated this, hated feeling afraid of his own father. He wished desperately that he believed as Dean did, believed that Dad wouldn’t react negatively to the news that one of his sons had psychic powers. He knew Dean had convinced himself it was a dream, that Sam’s vision of Dad’s reaction had been only a nightmare, not a vision. He only wished he could convince himself of that, but he couldn’t. He knew what he had seen. But he didn’t blame Dean for hoping for the best.  
  
“How you doing, Sam?”  
  
Sam looked up. Dad didn’t usually start conversations with him in that gentle tone. Usually his father’s questions sounded more like an inquisition. He winced a little at the hopeful look on his father’s face, at the realization that he’d been letting Dean do all of his communicating with his father for a long time. He hadn’t made any effort at all, letting one glimpse of one possible future dictate his relationship with his dad. It wasn’t fair to Dad, and it wasn’t fair to Dean. His visions didn’t _always_ come to pass, after all. They’d averted some things, stopped others from happening completely. Why the hell hadn’t they tried to talk to Dad, instead of just assuming the vision was set in stone? Scratch that. Why hadn’t _Sam_ tried to talk to Dad?   
  
Well, he might not be able to control the visions, but he could control this.   
  
“I’m good Dad. I’m okay.”  
  
“You look tired. You still feeling sick? Dean said you were sick again.”  
  
Dean was always trotting out that excuse, trying to cover for Sam’s migraines. The only reason it had worked for so long was because of Dad’s frequent absences. He didn’t realize just how often Sam had been ‘ill’.   
  
“I was. I’m feeling better now.”  
  
“That’s good, Sam. Real good.”  
  
Sam smiled. It was obvious that Dad had no idea how to talk to him, or what to talk about. But he was trying. So Sam tried too.  
  
“You been sick a lot lately?”  
  
Sam shrugged. “I dunno. I guess. I always seem to arrive at school in time for the latest bug, that’s what Dean says.”  
  
Dad scratched his hand through the stubble on his cheek, looking thoughtful. “Oh.”  
  
The last thing Sam wanted to do was have a conversation with his father about his so-called illnesses, so he tried to change the subject. “So it wasn’t a Black Dog?”  
  
Dad laughed. “No, just a stray mutt that was knocking over garbage cans combined with an old woman’s imagination. Waste of three days of driving, that’s for sure. Only good thing I found was this book at a antique store. It’s got some more obscure exorcisms, written in both Latin and Aramaic. Check it out.”  
  
Sam couldn’t help but smile. It was exactly like his father to try and connect with him over a book of exorcisms.   
  
He moved over to stand at his father’s shoulder, carefully not touching anything. His gloves were in the other room, and he didn’t want to have an accident, not in front of his father.  
  
They spent an hour leafing through the book together, Sam nodding in understanding when Dad pointed out one helpful passage that indicated the important difference between using the standard exorcism rite in Latin, as opposed to Aramaic. Some of the theories in the book were ridiculous, but others were fascinating. It was Sam’s only excuse for why he complied so readily when his father asked, “Sammy, pass me my journal, will you?”  
  
He wasn’t even thinking when he reached out to grab the leather bound book. His head exploded in light, and the last thing he saw was his father’s wide eyes and startled face.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
When Sam opened his eyes, vision blurry with tears and pain, it took him a minute to figure out why he couldn’t feel his arms or legs. He strained to move, but it was like his arms and legs were encased in concrete. He closed his eyes again, listening for the familiar noises of Dean moving around wherever they were currently staying, making coffee because caffeine sometimes helped the migraine back off a bit, wetting a cloth with cool water to wipe the sweat and tears off Sam’s face, or stripping the covers off the bed because after a vision Sam’s skin was sometimes particularly sensitive and polyester would made him break out in hives.  
  
His eyes flew open when he didn’t hear anything at all.  
  
He winced from the bright light shining in his eyes, instinctively tried to jerk back when a face swam into his line of sight. He quickly realized he wasn’t lying on the couch or the bed, or even the floor. He was tied to a chair, hands bound behind his back, ankles tied to the legs of the chair, with rope looped around his neck, chest, upper thighs and calves. He didn’t have a hope in hell of moving on his own.  
  
“Dad?”  
  
His father looked at him steadily. “What are you?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“How long have you been hiding behind my son’s face?”  
  
“Dad, it’s me—“  
  
The hard slap cut his words off, and Sam couldn’t help but hang in the ropes for a second, face and head aching, blood dripping from his split lip. His father’s hand was hard and calloused. With his head already pounding from the migraine, it felt like he’d been hit with a baseball bat.  
  
“How long? Since Mary? Is that when you got in my son? Are you what that yellow eyed bastard had planned for my boy? ”  
  
“Dad, I swear—“  
  
“ _Answer me!_ ” his father roared.  
  
Sam flinched back. “Dad, please. I’m just me.”  
  
Dad snorted, and turned away from him, striding across the room to where his duffel lay on the counter. “You’re not my son. I don’t know what you did to him, I don’t even know if he’s still inside you. But you’ve poisoned my family for the last time. I’m ending this, tonight.”  
  
“Ending… Dad, what do you mean? What are you talking about?”  
  
The silver blade flashed as his father slid it from its homemade sheath. “It’s too late for Sam, but I won’t let you take Dean down. I won’t let you hurt him.”  
  
Sam tried not to panic. It was his vision. Everything was coming true, just like he’d seen. His father was going to kill him, and Dean would be left to find his broken and bleeding body.  
  
“Dad, please! I’m me, I’m just me. I have visions, yes. But I’m not evil! I swear! I would never hurt you or Dean!”  
  
Dad laughed. It was a chilling sound, and Sam shivered. “Funny. That’s just what something evil would say. Sam, if you can hear me, it’s okay. We’ll end this tonight, one way or the other. As soon as I figure out how to get this thing out of you, it’ll be over.” He ran his thumb over the edge of the blade, checking the sharpness. He stopped for a moment and glanced at the floor. “I love you Sam. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better father, that I didn’t notice sooner. But I’ll make it right, I swear to you.”  
  
Sam fought the tears welling in his eyes. It fucking figured that the first time his father told him he loved him in what seemed like forever, it was a prelude to a torture session.  
  
“Dad, please. Please. Listen to me. I’m not possessed. I’m not evil. I’m just me.”  
  
“It’s not possession. I’m well aware you’re not a demon. You’re more like… a parasite. You crept inside my son somehow, and just… took him over, from the inside out. He probably didn’t even know you were there, until it was too late. I’ve seen it happen before, seen what your kind do to the hosts. And when you’re done with them, you move on to the next poor bastard, and the next, and the next. Well, not this time, you bastard. You may have taken my son, but I’ll be damned if I let you hurt anyone else.”  
  
His voice was shaking when he asked, “What are you going to do to me?”  
  
Sam knew his only choice was to try and hang on until Dean came home when his father replied, “Whatever I have to.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)

  
  
Dean walked through the door, the new ammo and guns in a small duffel in his hand and stopped dead. His eyes took in the scene before him like a series of snapshots fluttering past his eyes:  
  
 _His father, standing over his brother._  
  
 **snap**  
  
 _The knife in his father’s hand, dripping with Sam’s blood._  
  
 **snap**  
  
 _Symbols chalked on the floor, under the chair that Sam was tied to._  
  
 **snap**  
  
 _The empty flasks of holy water and the book of exorcism rituals that rested on the side table._  
  
 **snap**  
  
 _Sam’s head, lolling on his shoulders, his face tear-streaked, his eyes hollow and empty. Hopeless._  
  
The duffel hit the floor with a muffled thump.  
  
“Sammy?”  
  
His father never took his eyes off his brother.  
  
“It’s okay, Dean. I’ve got everything under control.”  
  
“What the hell are you doing? Sam? Sam, can you hear me?” Dean moved forward as quickly as his wooden legs would carry him. There was so much fucking _blood_.  
  
Dad’s arm shot out to block him. “Don’t cross the runes, Dean! What the hell are you thinking?”  
  
“What am _I_ thinking? What the hell are _you_ thinking? What have you done? _Christo!_ ” He strained against his father’s hold. It took him a moment to register that his father had put down the knife, was holding both his shoulders, trying to make Dean make eye contact with him.   
  
“ _Dean_. Listen to me. I’m not possessed. _In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti_. Okay? You need to listen. That’s _not_ your brother. I don’t know when, but something got to him. Some fucking leech got to him. It hollowed your brother out, and took up living in his shell. Your brother is dead.”  
  
Dean watched over his father’s shoulder as Sam weakly shook his head in denial. It looked like he had been denying his father’s words for a long time, and Dean cursed himself for having been gone for so long. What the hell had he been thinking, leaving Sammy alone? _You were thinking he was safe in his own home_ , he thought. _You were thinking that damn vision was just a nightmare. You didn’t believe Sammy, and this is what happened._  
  
“Dad. It’s Sam. Sammy. You’re cutting up _Sammy_. He’s not evil, Dad. Can’t you see that?”  
  
Dad sighed. “It’s having visions, Dean. Visions. Tell me one natural thing that does that.”  
  
Dean shook his head. “Um, psychics maybe? Dad, let me go, he’s _bleeding_.”  
  
“Let ‘im bleed,” Dad said. “Dean, psychics are monsters. I _told_ you this. They aren’t natural. Never met one that wasn’t either playing with its victims for its own pleasure, or carrying around some dark seed inside them. That vision it had tonight was the real thing . Your brother is as good as dead, Dean. The only thing keeping him alive is whatever fucking bug has taken over his body. This thing living in his skin has been lying to us. Pretending to be him. Playing with us.”  
  
“Dad, no. That’s Sammy. I swear to you, that’s my little brother.”  
  
“Explain the visions then.”  
  
“I can’t. I don’t know what happened. He just started having them. He can’t control them, but he’s not evil, Dad! Would something evil have visions about helping people? He’s given us information for hunts, info we wouldn’t have had without him. Or he has just plain ordinary visions, about plain ordinary people. Nothing supernatural at all.”  
  
Dad’s eyes narrowed. “You _knew_? All this time, you knew that your brother had turned? How long, Dean? How long did you know? How long have you been lying to me?”  
  
“Dad, you’re not listening to me. Sammy hasn’t turned into anything. He’s Sam. Nothing worked, did it? Not the exorcism, not the holy water, not the silver. Right? That’s because he’s not evil, Dad! He’s not evil and you’ve been torturing your son. Torturing _Sam_. It’s Sam, Dad.”  
  
Dad wiped a hand down his face. His whole body suddenly drooped, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He looked exhausted and when he raised his eyes to meet Dean’s gaze again, there was such despair and horror that Dean was sure he’d gotten through to his father and that this whole nightmare would be over.  
  
“No, Dean. It’s not.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
Dad wouldn’t let him go to Sam. Dean tried to push past him, tried to force his way to his brother, but Dad stood strong in front of him, a solid barrier. He Insisted that nothing he’d done, not the cutting, or the burning, or the beating, would kill Sam, and that he needed to talk to Dean first.  
  
“I promise if you still don’t believe me when I’m done, if you still don’t believe your brother isn’t your brother anymore, I’ll let him go. Look at me, Dean. I’ve never broken a promise to you.”  
  
Dean stared into his father’s eyes. He saw frustration, he saw misery, he saw desolation, but he didn’t see any trace of subterfuge.   
  
“He’s not in any danger right now. I need to tell you this. I need you with me on this one, son.”  
  
“I’m not fucking leaving him.”  
  
Dad shook his head in exasperation. “Fine. Will you at least walk across the room with me? So it doesn’t hear every goddamn word I say?”  
  
“Stop calling him _it_! That’s Sam! Your _son_!”  
  
Dad’s eyes were cold. “My son is dead. And that thing killed him. Now, can you listen? Please, Dean. Listen to me.”  
  
“Hurry up and tell me then. ‘Cause the minute you’re done, I’m cutting my brother loose.”  
  
Dad sighed. “It’s not your brother anymore, Dean.”  
  
“Well, we’re just gonna have to agree to disagree on that one.” It hurt him to see Sam slumped in the ropes that way.   
  
Dean could barely pay attention to the garbage his father was spouting. All he could see was the bruises blooming on Sam’s tanned skin like malevolent roses, the blood leaking in a steady _drip, drip, drip_ from his parted lips, his nose, his fingers. The rope burns around Sam’s wrists, and he knew that Sam had tried to get away from the monster wearing his father’s face. It was all he could do not to repay him for every one of the marks on Sam’s body, but he knew he couldn’t take Dad in a fight, not without getting the drop on him first. He could feel his gun digging into the small of his back, and itched to grab it, but he knew the timing wasn’t right. He had to wait. Wait for the right time. Had to ignore the speculative looks his father kept giving him. He had to wait. He wouldn’t be able to cut Sam loose with Dad conscious, not unless his father allowed him to. _Hang on, Sammy_ , he thought. _I’ll get you out of this, I swear_. He watched as Sam tried to roll his head toward where Dean was standing, like maybe he’d somehow heard Dean’s thoughts but couldn’t quite gather the strength to lift his head.  
  
Dad sighed. “Alright, listen. The night your mother was murdered. There’s something I never told you. Never told either of you.”  
  
“There’s a lot you never told us.”  
  
Dad smiled softly. “True. I wanted to protect you, both of you, as much as I could. I didn’t want you having to carry this burden. And I thought… I hoped that I’d be able to prevent some of it from happening.”  
  
Dean shook his head. “You’re not making any sense. Cut the mystic shit. Tell me what you want to tell me so I can cut my brother loose and fix the damage you’ve done.”  
  
He exhaled heavily. “Your brother was promised to a demon. _The_ demon.”  
  
He stared for a moment, sure his father had lost his mind. “What?”  
  
“I found out a few years ago. The demon had plans for your brother, and for other children like him. He’s been choosing children for generations. He kills their mothers, and does something to them to give them powers. He’s creating an army, Dean. And he wanted your brother to lead it.”  
  
“Why? That doesn’t make any sense!”  
  
His father laughed. There was a chilling emptiness in the sound. “Since when do demons make any sense? Did it make sense for your mother to burn to death on the ceiling of Sam’s nursery? It’s all part of the demon’s plan, Dean. His plan to screw with humanity. He did something to your brother that night, planted a cancer in him and waited for it to grow. I swore I wouldn’t let it. I swore I’d find a way to save Sam, one way or another. I waited and watched, hoping I’d be in time. Hoping I could stop. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t save him. But I’ll be damned if I’ll let something wearing his face destroy the world.”  
  
He felt like his father was moving at the speed of light and he was frantically scrambling to keep up. It didn’t make any sense.   
  
“I can’t believe you knew about your brother, knew there was something _wrong_ , and didn’t tell me. I’ve always counted on you to take care of Sam. That was your _job_ , before anything else. How many times did I tell you? _Take care of Sam. Look after your brother_. You knew something was wrong with your brother and you, what? Just let it happen? Didn’t you try to stop it? Why didn’t you come to me? If you’d told me, we could have stopped it before it got to this point. We might have been able to save Sam.”  
  
Dean lowered his head, braced for the pang of hurt that always hit him when his father insinuated he wasn’t doing his job, wasn’t taking care of Sam, but it didn’t come. After a moment, he realized why. Because he _was_ doing his job. He was _always_ looking out for Sam. And it _was_ Sam, no matter what his father said, no matter what plans the demon had. It was always _Sam_.  
  
Dad picked up the knife again. “Well, I’m ending it now. I’ll be damned if I let that demon use us that way.”  
  
“Wait, what are you saying?”  
  
He looked at him in surprise. “It’s gotta die, Dean. It’s the only way.”  
  
“Are you nuts? It’s _Sam_.”  
  
“It’s _not_ Sam. Haven’t you been listening?”  
  
Dean reached back and pulled his Colt from his waistband. He held it at his side, still reluctant to actually aim a gun at his own father. But there was no way in hell he was letting anything else happen to Sam.   
  
“I’ve listened to every crazy-ass word out of your mouth. Mom. The demon. His plans for Sam. Got it. Now you need to listen to _me_. You aren’t touching him again. I don’t care what you think. I don’t care what a demon has in store for us. That is my brother over there. My _brother_. Your _son_. He’s not evil, and he doesn’t have some fucking parasite living in him, and okay, yes, he has visions, but that’s just a part of Sam. Part of who he is. We’ve been dealing with this for two years. You hear me? _Two years_. Two years while you didn’t notice, too fucking busy on your fucking crusade to see that your son was falling apart, scared to death of what you’d do when you found out. Well, I guess he was right. I didn’t believe him when he said that you’d do this. I told him it was a nightmare. It was the only time I didn’t accept what he saw as absolute truth. I guess that makes part of this my fault. Fine, that’s on me. But the rest is on you. He’s not evil, Dad. I know it with everything in me. I’m the one who’s been taking care of him, putting him back together after every vision. It’s killing him, Dad. Do you get that? Every time he has a vision I worry that his brain’s going to explode. If he was evil, I doubt they’d take so much out of him. All he wants to do is help people, Dad. That’s it. That’s his big bad plan. To help people.”  
  
Dad stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “Dean, he’ll hurt you. He’ll hurt other people. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. We can’t… we can’t let that happen. I won’t _let_ that happen.” Dean watched in amazement as tears filled his father’s eyes and ran down his grizzled cheeks. “I know you think I’m a heartless bastard, that I don’t care about you boys. You’re so wrong. I love you both more than anything in the world, and all I’ve ever wanted to do was protect you. I failed with Sammy. I lost him.” He choked back a sob, and Dean’s throat tightened. “I won’t fail you, Dean. I swear to you.”  
  
“I swear to _you_ , Dad. I won’t fail Sam. Not again. I didn’t listen to him, didn’t trust him, and look what happened. Well fuck that. I’m not going to let you hurt him anymore.”  
  
“Dean—“  
  
“No. We’ll go. I’ll take Sam, and we’ll go. But you’re not hurting him again. And you’re sure as fuck not _killing_ him.”  
  
“Dean, I can’t let you go.”  
  
Dean’s grip on the gun loosened in surprise. “You promised me.”  
  
His father smiled. “I lied.”  
  
“What? Why?”  
  
“I needed to see how badly you’d been compromised. I needed to know if I could still trust you. I guess now I know. One last chance, son. Last chance to make the right choice, and do the right thing. Step aside. Let me end this. We’ll take Sam home to your mother, lay him to rest. Then you and I can go after the demon that did this to our family, and finally end this nightmare.”  
  
“Right now, _you’re_ the one doing this to our family.” Dean had never felt so unsure in his life. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to move forward. Protect Sammy. That was a given. But how?   
  
“Dean…” The weak voice cut through his fog of indecision.  
  
“Sam.” He breathed. “Hold on, Sammy.” His voice was stronger. There was no decision to make, really. “Hold on, I’m going to get you out of here.”   
  
He watched his father’s eyes widen in surprise, like he still didn’t believe Dean wouldn’t fall in line with his orders, like a good soldier. “Dean, you have to let me finish this.”  
  
“No. I really don’t.”  
  
The gun shot was almost anti-climactic.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)

  
  
He bundled Sam in the blankets from their bed, ignoring the way the material was immediately soaked with blood. He had to carry Sam to the car, his barely conscious brother muttering under his breath.  
  
“It’s okay, Sammy. It’s all gonna be okay. I know where to go.”  
  
He settled Sam in the front seat, his head pillowed on Dean’s thigh, so he’d be able to touch Sam’s hair, reassure himself that Sam was still breathing. He turned the key in the Impala’s ignition. She roared to life, greeting him the way she always had.  
  
“C’mon, baby. We gotta take care of Sammy.”  
  
She’d never let him down before, and she didn’t now. Gliding through the night like a sleek black predator, she practically drove herself down the highway, Dean too worried and distracted by Sam’s hitched breathing, his soft moans of pain, to pay proper attention to the road. But it didn’t matter. She got them there, just like she always did.  
  
He left Sam resting in the car while he went to assure himself of their welcome. He knocked on the door, his gun in his free hand. When the door opened, he brought the gun up to rest between the eyes of the homeowner.  
  
“So tell me,” he asked conversationally. “What’s your feeling on psychics, Bobby?”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
“Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, boy. What the hell kinda crazy Kool-Aid is your daddy drinking?”  
  
Dean didn’t look up from cataloging the wounds on Sam’s body. There were cuts everywhere, all over his arms, his stomach, his legs, even one dangerously close to his carotid, like John had gone for a killing blow and changed his mind at the last second. Cuts layered on top of bruises, burns on top of cuts. Sam was a textbook example on how to torture someone. Bobby was just grateful Sam hadn’t regained consciousness yet. Better that he sleep through the clean-up.  
  
“He was completely unreasonable, Bobby. Even more than usual, I mean. He refused to believe that Sam wasn’t evil.”  
  
He huffed irritably. “Your daddy always was the most stubborn bastard I ever had the pleasure to butt heads with.”  
  
“It was more than that. I know he thinks everything supernatural automatically equals evil, but this is _Sam_ , for fuck’s sake! How could he do this?”  
  
He pushed his ball cap back, and scratched his forehead. “Dean, I wish I could tell you that your father was possessed or something and that’s why he did this. It would be easier to deal with, I’m sure. But the truth is, your father’s idea of good and evil got cobbled together years ago when your mother died. He got told some things, figured out others, slapped a coat of quick-dry cement on it and called it good. Nothing’s going to change his mind now.”  
  
Bobby reached out a hand, and gripped the boy’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything about the way it was trembling under his touch.  
  
“I shot my father, Bobby.”  
  
Bobby gazed at Dean’s haunted face, then at the bruised and swollen face of his younger brother. “Kid, it’ll be okay. It’d take more than a shoulder wound to put John Winchester down.”  
  
He could barely hear the low reply. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”  
  
“Dean, you two are safe here. I promise. Anybody comes up that driveway looking to hurt Sam is gonna have a hell of a lot more to worry about than a backside full of buckshot.”  
  
Dean didn’t answer, just kept working on Sam’s unconscious body, carefully wiping a damp cloth over the bruises, removing sweat, and grime, and blood.  
  
“Listen. Don’t worry about any of that now. You just take care of your brother. I’ve got some vials of morphine in the back room, we’ll give him a shot so he rests comfortably tonight, and we’ll start dealing with the vision shit in the morning. You want some help getting him up to your room?”  
  
“No, I got it.”  
  
“Dean, he’s a pretty big boy.”  
  
Dean smiled. “Sam won’t ever be too big for me to carry him around like a little girl.”  
  
“M’not a girl.”  
  
Bobby blinked a little at the brightness of the grin that crossed Dean’s face at the slurred sound of his brother’s voice.   
  
“You’ve always been a girl, Sammy. How can you doubt it with that haircut?”  
  
“Wha’ happened?”  
  
He watched as Dean brushed the bangs back from Sam’s pale face. “Don’t worry about that right now. We’re safe, we’re at Bobby’s. You’re gonna get some sleep, and in the morning Bobby’s gonna help us figure some stuff out. Okay?”  
  
Sam’s eyes were already closing. “Okay. Dean?”  
  
“Yeah Sammy.”  
  
“I knew you’d come. I knew you’d save me.”  
  
Bobby turned away to give the brothers some privacy. But he couldn’t block out the choked sound of Dean’s voice.  
  
“Yeah, Sammy. I saved you. I’ll always save you.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)


	4. Chapter 4

Sam was barely mobile the next morning. There wasn’t a spot on his body that didn’t ache and throb, and if he moved too fast, he swore he could feel every stitch Dean had given him pull and stretch. He gratefully accepted the painkillers that Bobby slid across the table with his coffee. Dean didn’t look much better. His face was pale, and his eyes were dark and haunted.  
  
Bobby set plates of breakfast down in front of each of them, not blinking an eye at the gloves Sam was wearing.  
  
“Alright boys. Get yourselves around that and then we’ll talk.”  
  
Sam watched as Dean picked and prodded at the food on his plate, moving it around but not actually putting any in his mouth.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
Dean glanced up.  
  
“I’m not eating anything unless you do too.”  
  
The glare he got from his brother was epic. Bobby snorted in amusement.   
  
“You’re a manipulative little shit.”  
  
“Maybe, but you’re exhausted, and starving yourself isn’t gonna do either of us any good. So drink your goddamn coffee, and eat your fucking breakfast, and let’s get this shit over with, okay? I’m tired.”  
  
Dean continued to glare, but his shoulders finally came down from around his ears and he actually forked some food into his mouth, so Sam called it a win. Bobby tactfully didn’t comment on the way Dean had been maneuvered by his brother, and they finished breakfast in silence except for comments like, ‘Pass the salt,’ and ‘Chew with your fucking mouth closed, Christ’ and ‘Good grub’.  
  
After breakfast, they settled in Bobby’s study and Sam watched as Dean’s shoulders tensed again.   
  
“It’s okay, Dean. I don’t think Bobby’s gonna try to exorcise me after feeding me such a good breakfast.”  
  
Bobby chuckled.  
  
“Naw, boy. You’re not possessed. And you’re not evil, but your brother already knows that. Dean, just so we’re clear, I don’t think Sam’s evil. I’m not gonna do anything to hurt him, okay? You’re both safe here. I’m just gonna go through a couple of things to see just what flavor of psychic Sam is, and I don’t need you trying to take my head off, okay?”  
  
Dean nodded and Sam shifted a bit closer, until their bodies were aligned, arms just brushing against each other. It made him feel better to have Dean close enough to touch, and he guessed from the way Dean relaxed a little, it made him feel better too. Sam didn’t miss the way Bobby’s eyes glanced at them speculatively.  
  
“So, it’s like that, is it?”  
  
“Like what?” Dean snapped.  
  
“Calm down, son.” Bobby snapped. “You think I don’t want to help you? Help Sam?”  
  
Dean glared for another few seconds, until Sam nudged him with his elbow, then he glared down at the floor. “No.” he mumbled.  
  
“Exactly. But there’s about as many types of psychics as there are fish in the sea and if we’re gonna help Sam, we gotta narrow it down. Every bit of info helps. Does it make you feel better to touch Dean, Sam?”  
  
Sam fought not to blush. He knew Bobby didn’t know about the dreams he’d been having, the naughty little fantasies, but it didn’t change the fact it made him feel guilty as hell thinking about his brother that way. He didn’t want to answer, for fear he’d lead Bobby straight down the crooked narrow path in his brain, but they needed help. He had to be honest with Bobby, but maybe he could be careful, too.  
  
“Yeah, it does. He’s the only thing that can make the migraines ease off. And if I’m scared, or freaking out, it helps me relax, knowing he’s right there.”  
  
“Hmmm.” Bobby began leafing through one of the books on his desk. “You ever get visions from Dean?”  
  
Sam shook his head. “No. Dean’s the only one I don’t get visions from. I can take the gloves off around him. And being around him makes the visions and migraines better, especially if we’re…”  
  
Bobby’s gaze sharpened. “If you’re what?”  
  
He couldn’t help the blush this time. “If we’re in bed.”  
  
“You sleep together?”  
  
“It’s not like that!” Dean barked.  
  
“What the hell you getting so defensive about? You think I’m asking about your sex life?” Bobby half-stood up from behind the desk. “Fuck a sheep for all I care. I got better things to worry about then where you’re dipping your dick. But I’ll thank you to answer my goddamn questions without the goddamn attitude, alright boy?”  
  
Dean was flushing so brightly Sam was a little worried about his blood pressure. He wrapped his hand around Dean’s wrist and focused on Bobby’s question, tried to ignore the hot color he could feel staining his own cheeks, and the images Bobby’s words had planted in his head.  
  
“I started having trouble sleeping last year. My brain just wouldn’t shut off, going over and over the details of the visions. Even if I fell asleep, I’d still have nightmares about the visions. The only thing that helped is if I slept with Dean. The dreams would stop if he was there. Dad didn’t want us sleeping together anymore. He made us stop when I was eight. So we had to hide, to pretend. We usually shared a room, so we’d just go to bed in our own beds and then when we were sure Dad was asleep, I’d get in bed with Dean or he’d get in bed with me. When the migraines started getting really bad, we found out that skin-to-skin contact was better. So we started just sleeping in our boxers.”  
  
Bobby hummed thoughtfully under his breath. Sam counted out Dean’s pulse, feeling his heart beat under his fingertips.  
  
“So if you and Dean are touching, you don’t get a vision?”  
  
Sam glanced at Dean. They’d never thought about it like that. Sam had never gotten a vision lying in bed with Dean, but since they couldn’t go around all day holding hands, they had never considered if contact with Dean would actually prevent a vision.  
  
“I.. I don’t know.”  
  
“No, he’s never had a vision when we’re touching.” Dean said.  
  
“You sure?” Bobby asked.  
  
“Yes, I’m sure. I could probably list off everything he was doing during every vision he’s had in the last two years. Trust me, I was never touching him when he had one.”  
  
“What happens during a vision?”  
  
Dean shuddered under Sam’s hand. “It’s horrible, Bobby. He’s gone, he’s just not there anymore.”  
  
“What do you mean, he’s gone?”  
  
“I mean, it’s like there’s just an empty body. Nobody’s home. I call his name, I yell for him and nothing. It’s like he can’t hear me, or anything. I’m scared all the time he’s going to have a vision when I’m not around, and walk in front of a bus or something.”  
  
“How do you call for him?”  
  
Sam watched as Dean’s face wrinkled in confusion. “What the hell does that mean? I open my mouth and yell his name! How do you think I call for him?”  
  
“You ever try calling for him with your mind?”  
  
“What?” Dean’s voice blended with Sam’s as they both asked the question.  
  
Bobby chuckled. “You always get visions after touching something, right Sam?”  
  
Sam nodded. “Yeah.”  
  
“So you know you’re a pre-cog.” Bobby’s tone was confident, but Sam knew better.  
  
“No.” Sam shook his head. “I’m a touch clairvoyant. Dean was able to do that much research.”  
  
“I imagine it was kinda hard to figure out what the hell was going on without telling your daddy,” Bobby said sympathetically. “I figure that was why you didn’t get in touch with me.”  
  
“We wanted to,” Dean muttered. “But after that last fight you had with Dad, I wasn’t sure you wouldn’t greet us with a shotgun too.”  
  
“That warning was only for your daddy, boy.” Bobby’s voice was forbidding. “You boys are _always_ welcome here.” He scratched his head again, the only sure sign Bobby ever gave that he was uncomfortable. “I’m sorry I didn’t make that clearer. I hate to think of you boys trying to deal with this on your own.”  
  
“It’s okay, Bobby. You’re helping us now, that’s what counts.”  
  
Bobby shuffled some papers on his desk, looking uncomfortable at Sam’s words. “That’s what family does, son.” At the look that crossed Dean’s face, he quickly amended, “Well, at least that’s what they’re _supposed_ to do. Anyway, you boys have got some work to do, but you’re gonna be fine.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Well first off Sam, I’m pretty sure you’re a pre-cog, not a clairvoyant. One of the strongest I’ve ever seen. I think you’ve got a touch of retro-cog, too.”  
  
“What’s the difference?” The suspicion in Dean’s voice made Sam roll his eyes.  
  
Bobby ignored the tone and answered the question. “The difference is that a clairvoyant is at the mercy of the visions. A pre-cog has control, can direct what they see, can pick and choose when to have a vision. Clairvoyance is a curse, pre-cognition is a gift.”  
  
“Uh, Bobby. I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention here, I’d say curse pretty much describes Sam’s situation to a tee. He’s been a walking migraine for the last two years because of these fucking things. I’d say a lack of control is pretty much Sam’s _modus operandi_ right about now.”  
  
“He doesn’t have control _now_. He’s untrained, that’s true. But completely untrained, his gift is still stronger than a lot of pre-cogs I’ve known. And Sam, you can be taught. You can get this under control, use it the way it’s meant to be, instead of letting it use you. As you get older, your ability will get even stronger, but so will your control. I’ve never seen it manifest in someone so young. Most pre-cogs come into their powers in their early twenties.”  
  
“What makes you think he’s a pre-cog and not a clairvoyant? I’m not really seeing any difference here.”  
  
“Pre-cogs use an anchor, a person or object that grounds them. They’re bonded to it, permanently. Close contact with it lessens the effect of the visions and over time, the bond increases in strength, blocking out the negative sides of the power and giving the pre-cog the strength to control what they see. The closer the bond, the stronger the control.”  
  
“And you think Sam’s got an anchor?”  
  
“Boy, do you practice being this dumb or does it just come naturally?”  
  
“He’s saying you’re my anchor, Dean.” Sam’s eyes never left Bobby’s face.  
  
“What? No I’m not!”  
  
“I’m pretty sure you are, Dean.”  
  
“You better hope like hell you are, kid.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
The look that crossed Bobby’s face made Sam shiver. “Because most clairvoyants either kill themselves or go insane after a couple of years of dealing with the pain of the visions.”  
  
Dean went absolutely still under Sam’s fingers, and it was only the lack of motion that made Sam realize he was still clinging to Dean’s wrist.  
  
Bobby nodded. “Yeah. It ain’t pretty. They don’t go for quiet peaceful deaths either. Every clairvoyant I ever heard of who offed themselves always went out with a bang, literally. Blew their brains out, or dove head first off a tall building. It’s like they’d tried everything else to get the visions out of their heads, and that was the only option they had left.”  
  
“Bobby…” Dean’s voice was hollow, and Sam started rubbing comforting circles in Dean’s skin, trying as hard as he could to send a reassuring message to him. _I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. You saved me, you always save me. It’s okay, it’ll be okay_. It seemed to work a little, because he felt some of the tension drain out of Dean’s body and in turn Sam relaxed a little more.  
  
“Relax, kid.” Bobby’s voice was dry, steady and reassuring. Sam let go of a little more tension and felt Dean do the same. “He’s a pre-cog. Sure as I’m sitting here. We’re not gonna let anything happen to your Sam. Okay?”  
  
Dean nodded gratefully and Sam couldn’t help but wonder if he was the only one who had heard the possessive tone to the way Bobby had said ‘your’. From the wink Bobby gave him, he knew Bobby had meant it, but Dean turned and strode out of the room, complaining that he was starving and Sam was left wondering and clueless again.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)

  
  
The training regime Bobby had in mind was intense. Starting out, Sam’s control was practically non-existent. They discovered the more contact he had with Dean the easier time he had practicing. He learned to open his mind while clinging to Dean’s hands, letting the visions come in a glimpse at a time, rather than slamming into his mind with all the force of a battering ram. He learned to filter out the ‘normal’ stuff, the visions that Bobby said were, ‘Residual emotional baggage. Ignore it Sam. You can’t let that shit clutter up your mind. You’ll never get anything done.’ It was exhausting, and exhilarating, and the first time he had a full-fledged vision about a hunt without collapsing in Dean’s arms with an aching head, it was all he could do not to kiss Dean in his excitement.  
  
Bobby had them practicing meditation techniques night and day, rituals and routines that would help them open their minds to each other, while giving Sam the precision to control exactly what he saw, to shape the flow of the vision instead of being swept up in its wake.   
  
He’d wondered if it would be weird to let Dean into his head, to allow that level of trust. It wasn’t like Dean could search through Sam’s mind and find out about all the weird and disturbing thoughts Sam had. Dean didn’t have any psychic ability. He was practically a null. It was their bond that allowed Dean to access Sam’s mind, not any innate gift on his part, and Sam could block him out quite easily if he wanted to. Still, to have another person in your head like that. Sam had thought there would be a learning curve to the process, an adjustment period, but Dean being in Sam’s head felt natural, as if he’d always been there and Sam had just never noticed it before. It was easy to relax, to let Dean in, to actually feel their bond curling around the both of them as if it were alive.   
  
Dean was learning to communicate in a rudimentary way with Sam, mind-to-mind. Learning how to anchor him mentally during a vision, as well as physically. Learning how to call him out of his head if he got sucked in too deep. For the first time, Sam realized that he wasn’t the only one who benefited from touching his brother. Tension lines in Dean’s face smoothed out, and the harsh edge that Dean often had in his voice eased away. It was thrilling to know he had such a strong connection with Dean.  
  
The only downside was that with the development of the bond between them, he felt closer to Dean than ever before. He could feel Dean’s love for him, like a constant, low-level hum in the back of his mind. He was never without Dean’s presence. Even when they were in separate rooms, he could still feel that echo in his head that whispered _Dean_. The problem with this was that he spent most of the day with an erection he was constantly trying to hide. He lost track of the number of times he ducked into the bathroom to jerk off, quick and dirty, thoughts of Dean’s hands and eyes and lips sending him tumbling over the edge of his climax. Bobby’s knowing looks didn’t help.  
  
Bobby cornered him one day while he was doing the supper dishes. Dean was out back putting the final touches on the engine rebuild Bobby had been working on when he wasn’t helping Sam with his training.  
  
“Sam, I wanted to talk with you for a minute.”  
  
“What’s up, Bobby?”  
  
Bobby was silent for a long moment, long enough that Sam turned to look at him.  
  
“Have you told your brother how you feel, Sam?”  
  
“Feel about what?”  
  
“Don’t play dumb with me, kid. Have you told your brother you love him?”  
  
“Of course I love him. He’s my brother.”  
  
Bobby scowled. “You know that’s not what I mean.”  
  
Sam’s hands stilled in the dishwater. He stared down at the plate he was holding, and could feel the heat rising up his neck. He had never wanted to run from a conversation so desperately as he did now. But Bobby had taken them in, had taken a stand against John Winchester for them, and he deserved the chance to tell Sam exactly how fucked up he was.  
  
“I know. But how I feel… It’s wrong, Bobby. He’s my brother. How could I tell him something like that? He’d never… he’d never look at me the same way again.”  
  
“I don’t think you’re giving him enough credit.”  
  
“How much more can I expect him to overlook? How much more can I ask him to accept? I’m a freak, Bobby. I’m a freak, and I’ve tied Dean to me forever because of these fucking visions, and now you think I should just walk up to him and say ‘Oh hey, by the way, I happen to be in love with you?’ Yeah. I’m not sure how you’re envisioning that conversation ending, but I can already tell you, it wouldn’t be good.”  
  
“I thought you didn’t get visions about Dean.”  
  
Sam snorted. “I don’t need a vision to tell me this one, Bobby. I’m not an idiot. I know there’s something wrong with me. I won’t force Dean to have to deal with this on top of everything else. Can you imagine how it would make him feel, to know his little brother has got the hots for him?”  
  
“I think you might be surprised by how Dean would feel.”  
  
Sam threw the plate he was washing into the sink of soapy water with a splash. The resulting wave soaked the counter, but he ignored it.  
  
“And how do I deal if you’re wrong? How do I deal with the fact that my big brother, who’s taken care of me all his life, who looks out for me and watches over me, who loves me, even though I’m a fucking psychic freak, who shot our father to protect me, what do I do if he’s disgusted by what I am? What do I do if this is the one thing he can’t deal with? What if he leaves me, Bobby? What the fuck do I do then? Huh?” Tears were dripping down Sam’s face and his voice was hoarse.  
  
Bobby’s face was lined with regret. “Sam—” He reached out to grip Sam’s shoulder, but Sam flinched away.  
  
“No! You don’t know what it’s like! He’s the only thing I care about. He’s the only thing I have left. He’s _everything_ , Bobby. And you expect me to just, what? Gamble that away on the off chance that Dean’s got a kink for incest?”  
  
“Sam, I’m sorry.”  
  
The sorrow in Bobby’s voice broke through Sam’s fear and despair, and he felt all the emotion just run out of him, like water down a drain. He was suddenly exhausted. He turned back to the dishes, trying to ignore the tears drying on his cheeks. He waited for Bobby to leave, to call the conversation over and just bug out, like his father would have done. He chuckled under his breath at the thought of having this conversation with his father. Then he shuddered.  
  
Bobby didn’t look like he was going anywhere. He leaned against the counter, watching Sam dispiritedly wash the dishes, his arms folded across his chest, looking for all the world like he had nothing better to do than watch a lanky sixteen year old do the dishes and talk about his unhealthy obsession with his older brother. Well, fine. If Bobby wanted to discuss it, they could fucking _discuss_ it.  
  
“It doesn’t bother you,” he said.  
  
Bobby shrugged. “You being psychic? Hell no it don’t bother me. Some of the best people, best _hunters_ I’ve known were psychic. Nothing wrong with having a little bit of an advantage over the creepy crawlies out there, Sam. Nothing at all.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. Way to be subtle, Bobby. “No, I know you don’t care about me being psychic. Thanks for that, by the way.”  
  
“No thanks necessary.” Bobby’s voice was curt. He shouldered Sam out of the way and took over the washing up, so Sam moved over to dry the dishes already in the drainer.  
  
Neither man said anything for a long moment, content to just wash and dry. Then Sam said, “And thanks for taking us in.”  
  
Bobby exploded. “For Christ’s sweet sake, boy! How many times do I gotta tell you and your dumb-ass brother? We’re family, and that’s what you do for family!”   
  
Sam laughed. “I know. But I mean it. Thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Bobby grumbled.  
  
“But what I meant was, it doesn’t bother you. What I feel for Dean.”  
  
Bobby’s hands stilled in the dish water.  
  
“You won’t tell him, will you? I don’t want him to know. Please, Bobby.”  
  
Bobby smiled softly. “I won’t tell him, Sam. But I think he might know more than you think, deep down in the parts of himself where he doesn’t look too often. Never been natural, the way that boy looked at you.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean it’s not the way an older brother looks at a younger. It’s more like…”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
Bobby stared thoughtfully out the window. Sam followed his gaze to where Dean was bent over the hood of the car, practically crawling inside it. He saw the long lines of Dean’s back under his thin t-shirt, saw the strong muscles in his arms and shoulders. He could picture Dean’s hands, caked with grease and dirt but still beautiful and capable, could practically feel Dean’s hands on him. Dean’s hands, holding him during a vision, patching up his wounds after the confrontation with Dad, soothing him through a migraine. He loved Dean’s hands.  
  
“More like the way you look at the most precious thing in the world, and you can’t hardly believe it belongs to you. That you were lucky enough to find it and keep it.”  
  
“We’re brothers.”  
  
“Yup. You are. It’s not natural, Sam. Don’t fool yourself on that score. It ain’t natural, and anybody who finds out is gonna give you nothing but grief about it. But you aren’t hurting anybody. You’ve never had a normal life, and you’re never gonna. You’re a pre-cog, a goddamn powerful one and Dean’s your anchor. You’ve got the strongest bond I’ve ever seen. There’s not room for anybody else in that kind of bond. You’re only ever going to be able to see each other. So you’re either gonna live like monks, or you’re gonna fuck like crazed minks. The number of times you’re in the bathroom these days, I’m figuring it’s gonna be the mink option.”  
  
Sam felt his cheeks heating up.  
  
“But I ain’t gonna judge you for it, Sam. Either one of you. You boys are welcome in this house no matter who you’re sleeping with. You’re the closest thing I’ve got to children, and I’m not letting go of that.”  
  
Sam dried another dish, trying to fight the tears in his eyes.  
  
“I love you boys.” Bobby’s voice was quiet, echoing in the still kitchen. “You’ve got a heavy burden, Sam. I know what a value you used to place on being normal. All your life you wanted that, ached for it. And it got stolen from you when you were just a baby, even if you’re only finding that out now. But you’ve got someone who loves you more than anything, who puts you first in all things, who only cares about what happens to you. Dean shot your father to protect you. I never thought he’d be able to do something like that and walk away whole. But he did it for you. Some people think that kind of love can be a burden too.”  
  
“It’s not,” Sam whispered. His voice was fierce. “It’s not. It’s a gift.”  
  
“You’re damn right it is. So whatever you decide to do, remember that. Whether you tell Dean and take that chance, or you keep things to yourself. Remember you’ve been given a curse and a gift. What you do with them is up to you. You can use them, or let them use you. Just don’t waste ‘em.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
They’d been at Bobby’s for almost six months when Sam had the vision that upset the careful routine they’d developed.   
  
It was a warm and sunny afternoon, the sun beating down on them as they sat in Bobby’s back yard, facing each other, hands clasped and fingers entwined. Sam took a deep breath, felt for his brother’s presence in the back of his mind and then opened his inner eye, the one that let him see the things he shouldn’t be able to see.  
  
 _(the demon it’s the demon dean the demon dad dad and the demon we have to get it have to get it kill it dean the demon)_  
  
 _(it’s okay sammy I’m here tell me what you see tell me show me show sammy tell me)_   
  
Sam took a deep breath. It was still so strange for him to actually be able to communicate during a vision, but it also felt natural to feel Dean with him when his head filled with sights and sounds and smells that didn’t belong to him. Dean grounded him, was a small still figure in Sam’s head that felt comforting and safe and familiar, and left Sam feeling protected and loved, allowing him to see everything, not just bits and pieces. It felt like Dean was a guide, preventing Sam from getting overwhelmed and lost in the vision, pointing out things he might not have seen on his own. The thoughts he shared with Dean were more like images than actual thoughts, a way to communicate quickly without having to think of words.  
  
 _(dean dad the demon the demon has dad he’s planning can’t see yellow can’t see but he has dad)_  
  
 _(it’s okay sammy it’s okay focus this is this is what we practiced look around see look see show where where where)_   
  
_(the demon dad’s with the demon the demon has dad he’s I can’t see he’s something there’s something yellow there’s a warehouse warehouse sigils everywhere never saw that one that one before before dean dad’s drawing symbols the demon)_  
  
 _(shh sammy easy, one thing at a time where are they where where dad the demon where)_   
  
_(warehouse warehouse east something can’t see can’t it’s in the yellow dean in the warehouse can see river can see bridge can see trees close not far close warehouse demon dad knife dad oh god blood dad blood)_  
  
 _(I’m here sammy focus try and see try and see when see where see when)_   
  
_(soon soon not now but soon windows look on bridge warehouse close close soon dean soon have to have to save have to find have to soon demon’s gonna use dad use him to trap us wants us wants me soon have to save dad save us save you)_  
  
 _(we will sammy we will promise you protect you keep you keep you safe keep you dad keep you demon keep you safe)_   
  
_(know that know dean dad demon warehouse)_  
  
Sam opened his eyes with a gasp. Dean’s eyes opened an instant later.  
  
“You know where?”  
  
Sam nodded. “A warehouse in Sheldon. Three days from now, Dad’ll be there. And so will the demon.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)

  
  
“Sheldon’s just a few towns over. You know which warehouse?”  
  
Dean nodded. He pointed to a spot on the map. “About there, Sam says. It’s an abandoned storage facility. Hasn’t been used in years.”  
  
“Perfect spot for an ambush. Any idea why your daddy would be there?”  
  
“Sam couldn’t get a firm bead on it, just knew that the demon would be there, and that Dad would be in trouble.”  
  
Bobby scratched his forehead. “Well now. What do you suppose that demon’s up to?”  
  
Dean shrugged, and didn’t look up from studying the map. “Sammy couldn’t see it. _Yellow_ , he said.”  
  
“He ever seen something like that before?”  
  
“No. But then he’s never had a vision about the demon before.”  
  
“You sure it’s the demon?”  
  
Dean nodded. “Pretty sure. Sam got a pretty good feel for it in the vision. He could tell it has plans for him. And Dad said the exact same thing about the demon. Seems like a match to me.”  
  
Bobby grumbled under his breath.   
  
“You considered this might all be some sort of elaborate trap to get a hold of Sam?”  
  
“A trap?”  
  
“Well hell, boy. It never occurred to you that the demon might have planted the vision in Sam’s head?”  
  
“Not until now!”  
  
“Some demons have the ability to manipulate visions. Since there’s an infinite number of possibilities of how the future will unfold, it’s not hard to either make one up, or plan the one you want someone to see. If you’ve got the juice, that is. And I think from what little we know about this particular demon, he’s _definitely_ got the juice.”  
  
“So what do you think? You think it’s a planted vision?”  
  
“Doesn’t matter if it is or not. We gotta check it out.”  
  
“We?”  
  
“You think I’m letting you boys handle this shit on your own, you and I are gonna have a problem, Dean Winchester.”  
  
Dean grinned. “No sir.”  
  
“Good. ‘Bout time you got polite. Alright, so this is what we’re going to do.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
_Now_  
  
Their plan was a simple one. Dean figured that was best. It meant less chance for anyone to screw it up.  
  
They knew the vision would take place in three days, so they headed for the warehouse early. They would doctor the warehouse with the special symbols Bobby had found in one of his books, plant salt and holy water at all the entrances except the main one, and control the encounter from start to finish. They’d exorcise the demon and get it the hell out of his father, and they’d deal with the consequences afterwards.   
  
Of course, they weren’t expecting the demon to beat them there, but it wasn’t a Winchester plan if it didn’t go fucking pear-shaped right from the get-go. Bobby was unconscious on the floor, Dad was possessed, and Sam was being held up against one wall by the demon’s power and he was held against the other. They were completely screwed.  
  
“Oh, Dean. You’re just full of guilt, aren’t you? You know, your daddy’s in here swearing up a storm, cursing you to hell and back. Wants you to know that if you’d just _listened_ to him, and killed your brother when he told you to, none of this would have happened.”  
  
“Fuck you. That’s never gonna happen.”  
  
“Well, of course it’s not, not _now_. Now, I’m going to setup shop in your precious baby brother, and use his meat suit to kill your father and your little friend. I’m going to save you for last. You’re going to know the whole time you’re choking on your own entrails that your brother is going insane inside his own mind, powerless to help you, powerless to protect you. You’ll die knowing that everything could have been prevented if only you’d been strong enough, smart enough, _brave_ enough to end his life.”  
  
“I don’t care what you do to me. I’ll never want to hurt Sam. And it’s not his fault. No matter what you do. You hear me Sammy? I’ll never want that. _Never_.”  
  
“Dean,” he heard Sam sob.  
  
“Oh, Dean. If you only knew.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=SPN_BigBang10_YED-1.jpg)

  
  
The demon leaned in and began whispering, all the things Sam wanted to do to him, all his fantasies and dreams, and Dean couldn’t help the kick start of his heart. Oh thank God, Sam wanted him too. It wasn’t just him who felt like this. Sam _loved_ him. He tried to catch Sam’s eyes, tried to tell him in some small way that he wasn’t alone. But Sam wouldn’t meet his gaze, turned his face away with a despairing look, and he knew that Sam didn’t believe he could love him back, didn’t believe that he could want this too and Dean knew, he _knew_ they were going to get out of this somehow, because he had to be given a chance to tell Sam how much he loved him. He had to.  
  
The demon got tired of taunting him, and threw Dad’s head back with a roar, rushing out of his father in a cloud of black oily smoke. Dad’s body collapsed on the floor in a boneless heap and only the quick rise and fall of his chest told Dean he was still alive. He watched Sam try to fight off the invasion of the demon, try to turn his head away. There was nothing he could do except watch as the demon forced its way down Sam’s throat.  
  
After a long moment, Sam stepped away from the wall.   
  
“Sammy?”  
  
Sam’s eyes flashed an ugly jaundiced yellow. “Hey, Dean-o. Jesus, how do you like having to deal with the fact your little brother is taller than you?”  
  
“He is not!”  
  
Sam’s laugh echoed through the warehouse, cold and cruel, not the usual happy laugh that always brought an answering grin to Dean’s face. “Oh, Dean. We’re going to have fun. So much fun. I’ll save you for last, but maybe we can have a little fun first, sort of get the party started right. What do you think?”  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
“Oh, it’s not what I want, Dean. It’s what Sam wants. Wants it more than his next breath, actually. Wanna give your baby brother a kiss, Dean? He wants your mouth so bad, I can barely believe it. C’mon, I’ll make it good. Maybe I’ll even let him out to play, whaddaya say?”  
  
“You bastard.”  
  
“It’s your choice, kiddo. I could always do some other stuff with this lovely young body, take it for a test drive, so to speak. Knock you out, leave you to sleep the day away with your friend and your father, and bring back Sam’s meat suit later on. I’m sure I can find someone who wants to play with little Sammy here, maybe give him some pretty new bruises. Teach him some things. Tons of people just dying to make friends with a sweet, shy, _submissive_ boy. Oh Dean, he’ll be _so_ submissive. He won’t be _able_ to say no, I promise you. And neither will they.”  
  
“Don’t you dare! Don’t you hurt him!”  
  
The demon laughed. “Or maybe, I could take _you_ for a ride. C’mon, Dean, whaddaya say? You and me. I’ll stash Sammy someplace safe and we can go out, have some fun. I’ll make it good for you, I promise.”  
  
Dean watched as Sam’s face contorted. The demon stopped talking, stopped walking. After an endless silent moment, it glanced at Dean and grinned.  
  
“Woo-boy! Sammy didn’t like the thought of that! Especially didn’t like the thought of anybody but him touching you! Thought I was gonna lose him for a second. So close, yet so far, eh Sammy? So Dean, what’s it going to be? Wanna pucker up for your little brother, or am I taking him out for a different kind of ride?”  
  
“I’ll do it. I’ll do it, if you promise not to take him anywhere.”  
  
“Why of course, Dean! I am a gentleman, after all. My word is my bond.”  
  
“Bullshit.”  
  
“Po-tae-to, po-tat-oh. Get ready for smoochies, Dean-o. And make it good, as this is the only one you’re gonna get.”  
  
Dean tried to see Sam in the malicious yellow gaze, tried to see _Sammy_ in that leering face, but all he could see was _demon_ , so he closed his eyes. He didn’t watch as Sam’s face loomed closer and closer. Instead, he opened his other sense, that part of himself that was linked to his brother, searching for that presence in his mind that said _Sam_. The instant their lips touched, he found him.  
  
The bond sparked, guttering like a candle flame dying in wax and then _blazed_ , intense and strong just like always and Sam was _there_ and time slowed to a stop.  
  
 _(sam sam what are we gonna do what demon what can we)_  
  
 _(grab my hands dean grab my hands we can push him out we’re stronger together stronger than him stronger than I almost had him out before with your help stronger with you always stronger grab my hands grab grab love you in case this love you doesn’t work love you always you always love I’m sorry love you sorry so sorry)_  
  
 _(fuck you you’re not saying not saying goodbye love you nothing to be sorry for we’re kicking his ass not goodbye don’t you dare say your goodbyes you little shit)_  
  
 _(love you dean)_  
  
 _(love you love you always sammy always my sam)_  
  
Dean felt the demon’s power flicker as it felt the bond between them, like a wall that blocked it out, that it could see through but not move past. The power loosened its grip on him and Dean strained every muscle in his body to move his hands just enough to grab Sam’s hands, hanging lax at his sides. The bond flared stronger, deeper and for the first time, Dean saw Sam in his mind’s eye, standing beside him. This version of Sam looked older, older than Dean was now, older and stronger, and he glanced over at Dean with a confident gleam in his eye.   
  
_(together together we’re you can’t have us both not at the same time and we’re both here both there both together fuck you you son of a bitch)_  
  
“What are you doing?” The demon’s confusion and rage made Dean want to laugh in triumph.  
  
 _(exorcizamus te omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potestas omnis incursio infernalis adversarii omnis legio et secta diabolica)_  
  
“No! What the hell are you doing? You can’t do this, you can’t!”  
  
 _(we’re doing it you bastard get the fuck out get out of me get out of my brother get out ergo draco maledicte et sectio ergo draco maledicte et legio secta diabolica)_  
  
“You little son of a bitch! You can’t kill me, you know that! Let me finish it now, and it ends here. It can all end here. Let me go! Let me _in_!”  
  
 _(get out ut ecclésiam tuam secúra tibi fácias servire libertáte te rogámus audi nos get out get out **get out** )_  
  
Sam’s mouth opened, and he vomited up the stinking sulfur cloud that was the demon. He collapsed to his hands and knees, panting harshly. Dean twined a hand in Sam’s hair, offering what comfort he could. He wanted nothing more than to drop to his knees and gather Sam into his arms, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the roiling cloud of demon. The dark smoke whirled around the roof of the warehouse for a moment and then with a loud crack, vanished.  
  
“Sammy, you okay?”  
  
Sam’s voice was rough and hoarse. “Yeah. Yeah I’m okay, Dean.”  
  
“I gotta check on Bobby and Dad, okay? You good here?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m good.”  
  
Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes, which scared the crap out of Dean, but he’d have to deal with that later. He checked Bobby first. He’d have a hell of a headache later, when he woke up, but his pupils were equal and reactive, so he’d probably be fine. His dad was already groaning and sitting up by the time he got to him.  
  
“Dean, you okay?”  
  
“Yeah Dad. You?” Once Dean was sure his father was conscious and coherent, he moved across the room to Sam. He didn’t want Sam alone right now, not with their father in the same room. He crouched beside his brother, a little worried when Sam didn’t look up to meet his gaze.  
  
“My head hurts like a mother, but I’ll live. What the hell happened?”  
  
Dean eyed his father. “What do you remember?”  
  
“I remember getting clobbered over the head in Texarkana. After that, nothing.”  
  
“You’re in South Dakota. The demon possessed you, tried to take over Sam and kill all of us.”   
  
“Wait, you mean… _the_ demon?”  
  
“Yeah, _the_ demon.”  
  
“Then what happened?”  
  
“We fought him off.”  
  
“Dean, you can’t fight off a demon.”  
  
Dean rubbed a hand over Sam’s bowed head. “Well, you can when you have a powerful psychic helping you. Sammy and I kicked his ass, exorcised him right out of Sam’s body. Sam, you okay?”  
  
Sam coughed and nodded. He glanced up and Dean watched him fight not to flinch at seeing their father.  
  
“Are you… are you boys okay?”  
  
Dean looked at his father. “What are you asking?”  
  
“I’m asking if you’re _both_ okay.”  
  
Dean glanced over at his brother again. Sam still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Sam?”  
  
Sam shrugged. Dean was starting to get a little freaked. He wanted to see Sam’s eyes, make sure Sam was okay. He reached out and grasped Sam’s chin, trying to turn his head, but Sam jerked his face away. Dean stared at him for a moment before he answered his father.  
  
“Yeah, we’re okay.”  
  
“I’m glad. Dean, I’m glad you’re okay.”  
  
Dean knew his father didn’t just mean the encounter with the demon. He could feel anger churning in his gut. “Of course I’m okay. I’m with Sam. What did you think was going to happen?”  
  
“I don’t… I don’t know. I just don’t see how that kind of power can be good.”  
  
“Maybe power isn’t good or bad. Maybe it’s the person who uses it. Sam’s good. That’s enough for me.”  
  
“I… Dean, I want…”  
  
Sam tensed within the circle of Dean’s arm.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Can we… Dean, can I… I’d still like us to hunt together.”  
  
“What?” Dean chuckled, not needing Sam’s flinch at the thought to tell him how to play this. “Dad, we can’t. There’s too much… What you did… you tried to _kill_ Sam. I can’t even… I can’t get over that. I can’t. I won’t expose Sam to that.”  
  
“I was thinking… maybe just you and me?”  
  
Sam didn’t just flinch this time. He jerked away from Dean, and stalked over to where Bobby was starting to stir.  
  
“Sam is my brother. Do you get that? I’m not going to leave him behind to go hunting with the man who tried to murder him. We’re a package deal, Dad. Sam and me, we’re a matched set.”  
  
“I can’t… Dean, I can’t hunt with Sam. I can’t trust him.”  
  
Dean bared his teeth in a bitter grin. “Well, that makes us even then. Because we don’t trust you.”  
  
Dad hung his head for a moment, then nodded. “I’m glad you’re looking out for your brother. I’m glad he’s protected from everything, even from me. You always did a better job of looking out for him than I gave you credit for.”  
  
“Yeah, I did.”  
  
Dad’s eyes sharpened on his face and he nodded. “Yeah, you did.” He turned and walked to the door, stopping at the threshold. He didn’t look back, but his voice carried. “Take care of your brother, Sammy. You know how he gets sometimes, rushing in without thinking things through. Needs someone to watch his back.”  
  
There was a long silence, but then finally Sam replied, “I will.”  
  
“I’ll see you boys later.” And then he was gone.  
  
“C’mon, Sam. Let’s get Bobby home.”  
  
“Yeah. Sure.”  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-1.png)

  
  
Sam waited until Bobby went to bed. Then he sat down at the kitchen table and pointedly stared at his brother until Dean joined him. His head was still throbbing from using the bond with Dean to exorcise the demon, and he could swear he could still taste sulfur on the back of his tongue, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to get any sleep until he had some answers.  
  
“What is it, Sammy?”  
  
“Were you ever going to tell me?”  
  
“Tell you what?” Dean asked, frowning.  
  
“About the Yellow Eyed Demon. About what he did to me.”  
  
Dean pushed away from the table. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“Don’t fuck with me, Dean.” Sam snarled. “You know exactly what I’m talking about! What the demon said about me. You knew, you and Dad both knew! And you didn’t tell me!” Sam felt sick to his stomach, and he kept his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans to hide the way they trembled. He’d _trusted_ Dean, more than anybody else in the world, and all this time Dean had been keeping secrets from him. _Lying_ to him.  
  
Dean stared at the floor, running his hand over his head. “I didn’t want to worry you. You had the visions to deal with, and I just figured—“  
  
“Figured what?”  
  
Dean shrugged. “I figured it was more of Dad’s bullshit.”  
  
Sam clenched his teeth together. “When did you know?”  
  
“The night… the night Dad hurt you. He told me then, told me what he knew about the demon and his plans for you and the other kids. He didn’t know what the demon had done, just that he’d done something.”  
  
Sam blinked back tears. He wasn’t going to cry, not now. Not after everything. “So all that time, Dad was just waiting for me to turn, like some rabid dog?”  
  
“Sammy, you’re not—“  
  
“How could you keep this from me, Dean?”  
  
Dean’s face flushed. “When exactly was I supposed to tell you, Sam? Huh? While you were healing up from being tortured by your _father_? While you were learning how to control your _psychic powers_? Or hey, maybe I should have mentioned it when a demon had us _pinned against a wall_?”  
  
Sam stood up from the table. He ignored the way his legs were shaking and stared at his brother.  
  
“I had a right to know, Dean. And you had no right to keep it from me.”  
  
Dean’s eyes were blazing. “I had every goddamn right. You’re my brother. It’s my job to take care of you, to look out for you.”  
  
Sam was suddenly so fucking tired he could barely stand. He gripped the edge of the table and met his brother’s eyes. “But not to lie to me, Dean.”  
  
“Sam, I didn’t lie!”  
  
“No. You should have told me. I know you want to protect me, to take care of me. No one could have done it better. But I’m not a little kid anymore, Dean. You can’t make those kinds of decisions for me. Not anymore.”  
  
“Sam, c’mon—“  
  
“I’m going to bed.”  
  
Dean sighed. “I’ll be right up.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“What?”  
  
There was a sinking feeling in Sam’s guts, like the floor was dropping out from under his feet. The thought of sleeping without Dean there, to protect him from the nightmares, left him feeling shaky and vulnerable. But the thought of lying in bed next to Dean, knowing Dean lied, knowing Dean _knew_ how Sam felt, made him feel like a hand had reached into his chest and was clawing his heart to shreds. He couldn’t do it. He needed to make this break, for the both of them.  
  
“I don’t want you there. You can sleep in the spare room.”  
  
“Sam, you can’t. The visions—“  
  
“ _I_ control the visions now. I’ll be fine. I just… I can’t, Dean. I need… I need some time. You _owe_ me that.”  
  
“Sammy…”  
  
“Good night, Dean.” Sam slipped out of the room, leaving his brother behind.   
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=Divider-2.png)

  
  
That was the extent of conversation between them for the next three days. While Bobby recovered from his concussion, Sam avoided Dean at every instance. Even the bond was shut down. Dean wouldn’t have been able to tell if Sam was in the same room with him if he couldn’t see him.   
  
Dean tried to talk to Sam, but Sam would make any excuse to escape. He wasn’t practicing, and Dean had seen him wincing sometimes in strong light, which meant he’d had a vision, hadn’t been able to control it and was now dealing with a full-fledged migraine, something he hadn’t had in over a month. Every time Dean tried to touch him, Sam flinched away. So Dean backed off a little, giving Sam some space. He figured after everything that had happened, Sam needed a little time to figure things out.  
  
After the third day of sleeping alone, Dean couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t handle Sam’s hollow, sleepless eyes, and the way he jerked away when Dean went to touch him. He waited until Bobby was up and around, and then grabbed Sam and hauled him over his shoulder like he wasn’t an inch taller than Dean and still growing.   
  
“Dean, what the hell—“  
  
“Quit yer squawking, Sammy. We’re going to talk.”  
  
“There’s nothing to talk about!”  
  
“Oh no? Well, I think there is and since I’m older, what I say goes.”  
  
When Sam finally grew into his limbs and his height, he was going to be unstoppable. Dean was grateful that at the moment, Sam was still learning how to use his long reach. It took Dean a bit of effort to climb the stairs with Sam thrashing over his shoulder. It would be funny as hell to drop him on his head, but not really helpful for what Dean was trying to do, so he hung on tight to the twisting body and the railing, and pulled himself up the stairs.  
  
Once he got to their room, he dumped Sam on the bed. Sam tried to roll away, but Dean was quicker. He grabbed Sam’s wrists and held them over his head, pinning the rest of his body with the weight of his own. Parts of him perked right up at the way Sam twisted beneath him. _Whoa, boy. Down. Not now_ , he thought. _Maybe later, with a little luck._  
  
“Get off me!” Sam yelled.  
  
“Forget it! We’re gonna talk and we’re gonna talk now. We gotta get past this, Sammy. You’re a pre-cog. We’re bonded. You can’t do this without me.”  
  
“Yes I can. I’ll figure it out. You don’t have to stay here.”  
  
“What? Of course I have to stay. Did you forget what Bobby said about what happens to clairvoyants without an anchor?”  
  
“I’ve got control now, I don’t need an anchor.”  
  
“The only reason you _have_ control is _because_ of me, you dumbass!”  
  
“Screw you!”  
  
“Sam, please. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. You’re right, I should have told you. We’re partners in this, Sam. Full partners, all the way. So I’m sorry. I promise I won’t keep secrets from you anymore. Okay?”  
  
“Fine. I forgive you. Now let me go.”  
  
“Not until you tell me what other bug you’ve got up your butt.”   
  
Sam’s eyes darted around the room, refusing to meet Dean’s eyes.  
  
“I’m not going anywhere, Sammy. And I’m not letting go. You might as well just tell me what you’re thinking.”  
  
“Look, I know you want to go! I don’t blame you! So go! I’ve given you every reason to go, so just get the fuck out already!”  
  
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dean felt like he and Sam were having two different conversations.   
  
Sam went limp under his hands so suddenly Dean was afraid he’d hurt him. He pulled back a little, but didn’t release Sam’s wrists, in case it was a fake-out. He could see Sam’s eyes were full of tears, and he softened his grip a little.  
  
“Sam, what is it?”  
  
“Look, I forgive you for not telling me. If that’s what you’ve been hanging around for, fine. I forgive you. I won’t blame you for leaving, okay?”  
  
“Sam—“  
  
“Look, I get it, okay? It’s sick, and wrong, and disgusting, and you’re gonna leave. I don’t blame you. Just… quit dragging it out! Just go already and leave me here.”  
  
“Why would I ever leave you?” Dean felt completely in the dark. Leave Sam? What?  
  
Sam closed his eyes and tears ran down the side of his face into his hair. “You heard what the demon said. You heard what I want, what I dream about.”  
  
 _Oh_. Was that what Sammy had been freaking out about all this time? Between their dad and the demon, he’d almost forgotten the part where apparently Sam had more than brotherly feelings for him. “Yeah. And?”  
  
“What do you mean and? And nothing! That’s it! Isn’t that bad enough?” Sam’s face was twisted with disgust. And that just wasn’t gonna cut it.  
  
Dean pressed his lower body more firmly against Sam’s, making sure Sam could feel his half-hard length through his jeans. “Not as bad as me. I am the oldest, after all.” Sam’s eyes flashed up to his.   
  
“D-Dean?”  
  
“We’re in this together, Sammy. Just like everything else.”  
  
“What… what are you saying?”  
  
“Don’t you get it, Sam?”  
  
Sam shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face. The hope in his eyes broke Dean’s heart a little.  
  
“I didn’t want to push; didn’t want you thinking you had to do anything you didn’t want to. But now… Sammy, you’re not alone in this. I swear to God you’re not alone. Don’t you get that we’re the same? What you feel, I feel.” He swiveled his hips, grinding himself against Sam’s groin, and grinned when felt Sam’s cock twitch.   
  
Dean’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “What you dream about? What you fantasize? I have the same dreams, the same fantasies. When I jerk off, you’re what I think about, the way your hands would feel on me, your mouth. I fucking dream about your mouth, Sam. Your mouth on mine, your mouth sucking my dick, licking my balls, drinking down my come. I want to fuck your mouth, Sammy. I fucking dream about it. Dream about you blowing me ‘til I come, then sucking me until I’m hard again and then I’d fuck you. Fuck you so hard and deep you’d feel me for days.”   
  
He ground down and felt Sam arch against him. Sam was panting, his eyes so dilated they were demon-black, with just the thinnest ring of hazel around the outside. It felt so fucking good to voice the things he’d been thinking for so long, Dean couldn’t stop. “Want to come in your ass until you’re dripping with it, wanna push my fingers in you and watch you just take it, play in my come, push it back inside you and watch you writhe on my fingers, play with you until you beg me to let you come. I won’t, though. Won’t let you come until I do, until I’m fucking exhausted and you’re fucking filthy with my spunk. I’ll let you lick come off my fingers and then when you’re desperate, when you’re mindless with need, I’ll fuck you one more time. I won’t touch you, I’ll just fuck you until you come on my dick, come screaming my name, just from me pounding your ass. Wanna do that, Sammy? Wanna let me fuck you until you scream?”   
  
He leaned forward until his lips were touching Sam’s earlobe, until his breath was rasping hotly in Sam’s ear. “Will you come when I tell you, Sam? Will you come now?” Dean pressed against Sam one more time, bit his earlobe and felt the walls Sam had erected between them crumble to pieces as Sam came with a silent scream.  
  
He rolled over and pulled a shaking, sweating Sam into his arms, cradling him against his chest. “You okay?”  
  
Sam nodded.  
  
“Still want me to leave?”  
  
Sam shook his head.  
  
“You ever gonna talk to me again?”  
  
The bond flared to life and Sam was there in Dean’s head, where he belonged.  
  
 _(i thought I was the only one the only thought I was a freak disgusting thought you’d hate me)_  
  
 _(you thought wrong dumbass sammy my sammy mine)_  
  
Sam settled himself closer to Dean’s body, pressing himself against Dean’s side, and let one hand drift down to tentatively rest over Dean’s erection.  
  
 _(you didn’t you want me to want my hands my mouth want you want)_  
  
 _(sammy I want you want)_  
  
Dean’s mind was suddenly blazing with light, a kaleidoscope of images, Sam on his knees, mouth wrapped around Dean’s cock, Dean’s fingers buried in Sam’s hair, Dean thrusting in and out of that soft pink mouth, the way Sam’s eyes never left his face, so full of love. Dean groaned, and thrust against Sam’s hand.   
  
_(sammy sammy you oh you god so fucking hot)_  
  
 _(want you to fuck my mouth dean want you to fuck me so hard I choke on your dick c’mon dean c’mon and fuck my mouth oh god please do it)_  
  
 _(dirty little bitch with your dirty mouth oh fuck more gimme more)_  
  
 _(thought you liked my mouth all the things you were gonna do to it my mouth my ass fuck my mouth fuck me make me beg make me scream can’t wait until you do want you so bad god dean so fucking gorgeous want to lick every inch of you every freckle every scar want to bite you claw you suck you kiss you can I can I **can I kiss you** )_  
  
 _(sammy)_  
  
He crashed their mouths together, hot and wet, tongues dueling, trying to map every inch, wanting to mark, to claim, to _own_ , his hands fisted in Sam’s hair, Sam’s wrapped in his shirt, his groin grinding against Sam’s thigh and Sam _Sam_ _**Sam**_ everywhere. It was all he could think, all he could feel, and then Dean was coming. He could feel it in his mind first, a slow burning heat that coiled through him and lit him up from the inside. The flash of his orgasm tipped Sam over again, coming so hard he groaned, low and almost painful against Dean’s shoulder.  
  


[ ](http://s569.photobucket.com/albums/ss137/macbyrne/Big%20Bang%202010%20-%20The%20Touch%20of%20His%20Hand%20-%20Artwork/?action=view&current=SPN_BigBang10_kiss-1.jpg)

  
  
It took forever for Dean to get his breath back, partly because with every breath he took he could smell Sam, so close and warm against him, tucked in against his side with his head resting on Dean’s chest.  
  
“Can’t fucking believe you mind whammied me to get me off.”  
  
Sam laughed. “I can’t believe how easy it was to _get_ you off. I thought you older guys had stamina?”  
  
“Hey!” Dean’s outrage was only half fake.   
  
He rolled Sam over and covered his body like a blanket, pinning him down. Sam wiggled ineffectually. He had grown a lot, but he still couldn’t beat Dean in a fair fight. Exhausted from two mind blowing orgasms, he didn’t stand a chance. Dean leered as Sam squirmed against him.  
  
“You’re not going anywhere, Sammy. You got that? We’re in this together, all the way.” He reached out with his mind, feeling for Sam and sighed with relief when Sam reached back. “All the way, right?”  
  
Sam stared back at him, looking ridiculously happy and grateful and he leaned down and kissed his brother, feeling Sam’s surprise at the move, before he relaxed into it. It wasn’t like their kisses before. This wasn’t about staking a claim. This wasn’t about desire or lust or ownership.  
  
This was about everything that was between him and his brother, everything that tied them up and twisted them together, made them two halves of the same coin.  
  
He pulled back and rested his forehead against Sam’s, staring down into his eyes, watching Sam stare back up at him. He brushed a gentle kiss against Sam’s nose, feeling happier than he’d felt in a long time, knowing Sam felt the same way, feeling the soft hum of Sam’s happiness vibrating in the back of his brain.  
  
“Together, Sammy,” he whispered again. He smiled when he heard Sam’s unspoken reply.  
  
 _(together always love you dean love you so much love you forever)_  
  
“Love you too” he murmured and rolled off Sam, curling up onto his side and tugging Sam along with him until they were spooned together, his arms wrapped around him.  
  
They fell asleep like that, wrapped around each other, completely entwined.   
  
For the first time in what seemed like forever, there were no dreams, for either of them.  
  
  
  


Fin


End file.
